


Pagan Rites

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Falcon & the Winter Soldier, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Universe - FBI, Bikers, Brock Rumlow is a racist asshole in this, Drinking, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gang Violence, Gangs, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, undercover cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: James Sebastian isn't happy when Alexander Pierce asks him to go undercover at a weekend wedding, but he can't say no to the leader of the Pagan biker gang. Pretending to be the boyfriend of a member of the infamous Crips is going to be hard since he's already got his hands full making sure Pierce doesn't find out that he's really Bucky Barnes, an NYPD cop. And finding his soul mate? Well, that's way down on his agenda behind not getting killed while trying to stop a gang war.Thomas Mackenzie isn't happy when Barracuda asks him to go undercover at a weekend wedding, but saying no isn't an option to the leader of the Crips. Pretending to be the boyfriend of a member of the Pagan's biker gang is going to be hard since he's already got his hands full making sure Barracuda doesn't find out he's really Sam Wilson, an FBI agent. And finding his soul mate? Well, that's way down on his agenda, behind not getting killed while trying to stop a gang war.A biker/gang/fake dating/soulmates/sharing one bed fic for the winner of my medium length MTH 2020 fic allyouneedissleep who asked me to write a story for her sister, hotmess_BakerAmy.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, minor -- Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, minor -- Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 62
Kudos: 133
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hotmess_BakerAmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotmess_BakerAmy/gifts), [allyouneedissleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyouneedissleep/gifts).



> Happy Anniversary to Hotmess_BakerAmy!
> 
> Your lovely sister, allyouneedissleep, won my Marvel Trumps Hate auction for a medium length fic, and she asked me to write this as a gift to you. I hope I've done both of you justice with this tale of mistaken identities, soul marks, biker gangs, and our favorite knuckle-headed boys, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. 
> 
> Allyouneedissleep sent me what you wanted: "Oooh soulmates is always fun. I dig a mob au, or like biker gang, loveee when the 2 that hate each other have to share a bed 😂, fake bf for a holiday/work trip/wedding... "
> 
> I will be posting a chapter a week for the next six weeks, so Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks also to my lovely beta Tink_Wondering!

_Music._

_White._

_Gun in his palm._

_Spinning, reaching, falling._

_Blood between his fingers._

_Screaming, running, shouting._

_“Stay with me.”_

  
  
  


Bucky woke, sitting bolt upright, chest heaving as he tried to take a breath. Sweat began to immediately cool in the chill of the room, the uncaulked sill of the window letting in the autumn air. He swung his feet out of the tangle of blanket and sheet, the metal frame cutting into the bottom of his thighs. Running a hand over his soaked buzz cut, he tried to hold onto the scattershot images, but they faded away into the pale light of early morning. For the last three nights, he’d had the dream, a confusing jumble of disconnected actions and sounds that made no sense. Foreboding hung heavy upon him, an after-effect that would stay all day like a low-grade headache nestled behind his eyes. 

With a sigh, he got up, instinctively knowing there was no use trying to get back to sleep. Between the drumbeat of his heart and the constant anxiety of lies upon lies, he was too wound up. Instead, he filled the kettle from the kitchen tap, put it on his tiny two-burner electric cooktop and let it to come to a boil while he visited the corner that was his bathroom, not bothering to draw the curtain that walled it off from the rest of the rectangular room. This early, he might get ten minutes of warm water if he got in before the garage opened at six a.m. Once they started downstairs, he’d be lucky to have a lukewarm spray for two, maybe three minutes, before it ran cold. 

On a day like this, he missed his real place -- the one he shared with Steve -- his soft mattress in his own room, and bathroom with a rainfall showerhead that he’d given Steve grief about installing but absolutely loved. The little coffee shop down the street, the one that had the best orange scones, and the pub a block over where they’d go to watch the games and hoist a few with friends. 

Almost eleven months he’d been undercover, slowly working his way up the ranks, playing a skin-head racist asshole every moment of the day. Maybe that was what the dreams were about, his subconscious reminding him that one wrong move and he’d end up on the business end of Alexander Pierce’s gun. But he was trying to take down the leader of one of the worst biker gangs on the East Coast, and there was no way Bucky was going to stop now. 

When Peggy had asked for volunteers to infiltrate the Pagans, Bucky had been the obvious candidate. He owned two bikes, had done a lot of the work on them himself, and, as Steve always said, had the best resting murder face of the whole squad. Being on the gang task force was something he had worked for, and he knew the risks when he accepted the job. Still didn’t mean he couldn’t bitch about living in a crappy shoebox-sized room with a crack house two doors down. That was the thing about a cover where he was an ex-con who’d rather beat the shit out of someone than hold down gainful employment; he could only live where James Sebastian could afford. 

After making a cup of instant coffee, he pulled the door shut and clattered down the steps. The guy who owned the shop didn’t mind Bucky working on his bikes in the back as long as he cleaned up and didn’t steal anything; by letting a member of the Pagans live there, he hoped that would protect him and his property from the violence that plagued the neighborhood.

“You’re up early.” Clint Barton slid out from under a 1979 Dodge Charger; his spiky hair was a mess, and there were oil smudges on his face. 

“I’m beginning to think you live on the couch in the office,” Bucky said. 

Climbing off the creeper, Clint made a beeline for the ancient pot and poured himself a cup of the black sludge that passed for coffee, taking a swig. “Have to sleep for that.” 

“I hear ya.” Bucky took out his keys and headed to the back door. “That’s what alcohol is for.” 

Clint snorted and coughed on his second mouthful of coffee. “Never touch the stuff; I’ll have to take your word for it. Hey, you going by that bakery, the one with the chocolate cookies? Bring me some if you do.”

“Might be late,” Bucky told him. 

“I’ll be here,” Clint promised. 

It was cool in the shadowy light of morning; Bucky took out a rag from his saddlebag and wiped off the seat on his 2011 Triumph Rocket III Roadster. The bike was his pride and joy; Steve said he loved it more than any of his boyfriends, and he was right. He’d rebuilt the engine from the ground up, and woe to anyone who touched his baby without permission. The purr when it started up always settled him, and riding was one of the greatest joys in his life. He loved to take her out of town, up towards Connecticut and upstate New York, winding back roads where he could let her loose and eat up the miles. Even at this early hour, the city streets had too many cars and trucks and kamikaze taxis; heading away from Manhattan helped, but not enough to do more than start and stop and occasionally cut through an alley or side street. Still, by the time he parked her behind the Scarlet Witch Bakery, he was feeling more like himself. 

“Early today,” Wanda said as he came in through the back door. “More dreams?” 

Sometimes, Bucky wondered if Wanda really was a witch, the way she always seemed to know things. It was a running joke between her and her twin brother; their grandparents had started the bakery after they immigrated from Romania, and the rumor was that the grandmother, Natalya, practiced magic. Her papanași was legendary, that’s for sure; the pastry melted in the mouth, and Bucky could eat three at a time. 

“Same stuff.” He poured himself a cup of cafea lunga and added a dollop of milk from the fridge. “Don’t need to be a fortune teller to know I’m worried something bad’s coming.” 

“You should talk to Madame Duță; she specializes in dreams.” Pietro snatched a tray of gogoși before Bucky could get a hand on one. “You sure you haven’t met your soulmate yet? Uncle Nicu dreamed his whole way over on the steamer ship; ran into Lidia on the deck just before they disembarked.”

“God, I hope not.” Bucky smiled as Wanda gave him two of the little doughnuts on a napkin. “Considering who I spend my days around, I really don’t want one of them to be my soulmate.” 

“True.” Pietro nodded, solemn face breaking into a grin. “And you’re the worst of the lot!” 

Bucky popped both in his mouth, wadded up the napkin, and threw it at the kid; Pietro ducked and was out of range before the projectile reached him, his laughter echoing through the kitchen. 

“Seriously, you might want to consider a reading,” Wanda said as she put the finishing touch of powder sugar on still warm cookies. “Your subconscious might be picking up clues that your conscious isn’t aware of. At least, talk to Steve when you can; he has some distance on the situation and can see more clearly.” 

She was right about that; as Bucky’s contact point, she and Pietro passed messages to Steve and D.I.C. Carter. It was too risky to meet regularly with an NYPD officer, even if Steve was his oldest friend, and phone calls had to be rare and infrequent. But maybe this was worth taking a ride out of the city with a burner tucked in his pocket. 

“Here.” Pietro reappeared with a white box with the bakery logo on the side and a waxed paper bag. “Papanași to curry favor with your boss and plăcintă cu ciocolată for your mechanic friend.” 

“Thanks, man.” 

Bucky pulled a 20 out of his wallet and dropped it on the counter; this was one of his few indulgences, helping the twins keep their family business going. They’d already had it hard enough with Pietro falling in with a bad lot and almost winding up in jail. Bucky had seen a bit of himself in the kid, the rebellious teenager who thought sullen silence was a way to avoid talking about his feelings; he’d helped him out, got him a second chance, and kept it all off his record. Watching them really make a go of it was a good feeling. 

“Be sure to tell your friends about our excellent service and outstanding food.” Pietro winked as he picked up the tray Wanda had finished. “And do come back again. We appreciate your patronage.” 

“Asshole,” Bucky muttered good-naturedly.

“Takes one to know one.” Wanda gave him an affectionate buss, rising up on her tiptoes to reach his cheek. “Please be careful.” 

“I will,” he promised even though he was sure there was no way this wasn’t going to end in violence -- but she didn’t need to hear that. “See you soon.” 

The stop bolstered him even more; it was easier to put on his game face as he drove up to the old storefront that housed the Pagan clubhouse, to get ready to play James Sebastian, the dishonorably discharged from the military ex-con with a long rap sheet. Shifting into character, he let all emotion bleed out of his face and pulled his bike into the shady spot next to the side door. Six others were parked along what used to be a thruway but was now blocked off by a dumpster at the far end. The building on the other side was condemned; some of the members used it as a place to flop when things got too hot at home or after a long night drinking. Only top lieutenants got to stay in the main space, a few rooms upstairs with a fridge for beer, some cabinets full of mugs, and a bathroom that was always dirty. Some newbie had the responsibility for cleaning, which meant it rarely happened; and, if it did, it was perfunctory at best. Gave Bucky a good reason not to live on site; if he’d had to maintain the disguise 24/7, he didn’t think he’d make it. 

Downstairs was a large space that they used for meetings, Pierce’s private office and bathroom, and an armory. First thing Bucky had done when he’d ‘joined’ was work his way into the good graces of the weapons master, a wily old biker by the name of Viktor Yanukovych who swore he’d been part of the Titushky back in Ukraine. From the tattoos that adorned his leathery skin, Bucky believed the stories about time in a Russian prison. Hadn’t been all that hard to build a rapport; between the sleeve Bucky was having done on his left arm and his family’s Eastern European connections, he’d managed to become one of the few people allowed into the armory to inventory and keep everything in working order. 

Glancing through the glass insert in the closed office door, he saw Pierce in his chair, cell phone tucked in his ear. In the two years Alexander had been the head of the Pagans, he’d made a lot of changes -- for the health of the organization, he liked to say -- ones that had made them more lethal and a bigger threat to the city than they’d been for a decade. In the past, the Pagans had been mostly white supremacists, neo-nazis who held a long term grudge against the Hell’s Angels. Conflicts arose between the two biker gangs on a regular basis, but it rarely spilled out of their claimed neighborhoods. Sometimes they ran guns, and there’d been a six year period when they’d dipped their fingers into the drug trade, but a nasty run-in with the Bloods put a kibosh on that scheme. 

But Pierce … Pierce was smart and savvy. He’d come in, shaken things up, and had plans to take them to the top of the heap. Word was he had connections in low places; he’d been seen at some high society galas, mingling with the likes of Leo Owlsley and Wilson Fisk himself. Others said he had an MBA from Harvard and wanted to turn the Pagans into a business venture, albeit an illegal one. His background was an enigma; the NYPD’s best data trackers couldn’t get past the patently false personae he showed the world. But one thing Bucky had come to realize: Alexander Pierce was a ruthless sociopath who didn’t care who he had to kill to accomplish his goals. 

So Bucky kept walking, entering the armory and flicking on the lights, knowing Pierce would see him moving around. He’d tucked the cookies for Clint into his saddlebags before he came in; the bakery box, he put on the workbench to save for later. While Bucky didn’t keep a set schedule, when he came in early, he always started here. Taking down the inventory list, he ticked off each item, located it, made sure it was in the right place, and noted if it needed maintenance. Those that were checked out, he deciphered Viktor’s chicken-scratch code and memorized. Then, he pulled each of the newly returned weapons and started breaking them down for a thorough cleaning. So rote, it was muscle memory by now; he watched Pierce stand and start pacing through the corner of his eye, marking the passage of time by the number of times he hung up and called someone else. 

They’d tried bugging Pierce, but the man was paranoid and swept both his home and office at least two times a day. Getting someone inside his organization was the only way to gather information which is how Bucky found himself in this situation. At least he’d gotten intel on the weapons; if one was used in a crime, he could help them track it back to the person who pulled the trigger. And he’d also learned a lot about the intricate relationships between the various gangs, who hated who and who was jockeying to move up in the organization. 

He was almost finished restocking ammunition when he heard the first stirrings upstairs, feet crossing the squeaky floor and pipes banging as the ancient shower started. Someone came clattering down the stairs as he put the last boxes in place; in moments, Brock Rumlow filled the open doorway, peering into the room, his eyes landing on the box. 

“For a badass, you’re okay, man.” He made a beeline for it, propped open the top, and took out a pastry. Shoved it in his mouth for a big bite. “Gonna make coffee,” he said as he chewed. 

Of all the other lieutenants, Rumlow was the most dangerous. A self-proclaimed Proud Boy, he had a swastika tattoo on his neck and made no bones about his hatred of Blacks and Jews. He used his position to try and convert others, inviting them to rallies and stoking discontent among the already angry and disenfranchised young men who tended to find their way into the Pagans. 

When Bucky had first arrived, Rumlow and his buddy Rollins had been two vicious peas in a pod; the only difference had been that Rumlow had a brain, whereas Rollins was dumber than dirt. They’d both hated Pierce’s initiatives to bring in new blood -- including some African Americans and an openly gay ex-MS-13 guy -- but Rumlow knew to keep his vitriol out of sight and sound range. Rollins, on the other hand, had been after the newbies without hesitation, slurs and threats a constant in the clubhouse. Pierce warned him once; the second time Pierce caught him at it, Rollins disappeared and his body had never been found. Everyone had shut up after that including Brock who just shook his head and said Jack should have known better. 

“Your little gypsy girlfriend sure can bake.” Rumlow was back with a styrofoam cup in one hand, reaching for a second pastry with the other. “You tapping that, right? ‘Cause if you’re not, I might take a run at it.” 

Always pushing buttons, that was Rumlow. He seeded anger and hatred wherever he went, stirring the pot. Only two ways to handle him, Bucky had discovered: ignore him or shut him down completely. Just the thought of him setting his sights on Wanda and Pietro made Bucky’s blood boil; he tamped it down and let James Sebastian’s eyes turn cold and hard, a cutting stare that froze Rumlow’s hand as it hovered over the box. 

“Seriously, dude, she’s hot. Bet I could make her …” 

Bucky arched an eyebrow but said nothing. 

“Jesus, fine, whatever. Hear she’s a witch anyway,” he groused as he took another papanași. “But, damn, these are good.” 

“Better have left one for me,” Pierce said from the doorway. 

“Gotta hurry to get one of these bad boys,” Rumlow said. “Once those vultures upstairs wake up, there’ll be nothing but crumbs left.” 

“Early birds, eh?” Pierce walked over and picked out a pastry. “These from that Romani place? They make the best potato bread and cabbage soup.”

Tall and slim, Pierce was showing his age, the wrinkles on his face hiding the fact he kept himself fit and in shape. He used it to his advantage; too many underestimated him, thought a leader should be young and muscular, some strange sort of survival of the fittest mentality. They made the mistake of thinking they could take him out because he looked frail -- and he put them down quickly with his fists or his gun. 

“You got a minute, James?” Pierce always called people by their given names and not their nicknames. It was a power play, Bucky knew, but it worked. 

“Yeah, I’m done here until the rest shows up.” He let that drop, knowing a number of the guys sleeping upstairs hadn’t followed procedures correctly and would be sliding in, asking Bucky to smooth things over. The days of taking what you wanted without impunity were gone now that Pierce was in charge. 

“Brock, can you run the numbers for today? As usual, I’ve got to put out some fires and shovel bullshit,” Pierce said. 

Rumlow grinned; the numbers were the bread and butter of the gang. Being put in charge of that was the best job and meant Pierce trusted him. He could lord the fact over everyone including Bucky for the whole day. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll go kick those assholes ‘til they’re up and get ‘em going.” He gave a little salute then turned to Bucky. “Have fun shoveling shit, boyo.” 

Waiting until he was gone, Pierce took another papanași and headed into this office, expecting Bucky to follow. Bucky took one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs and settled in as Pierce began shuffling through his desk then looking at files on his computer. He worked on his own time table, and this was another one of his tests. Show the least bit of discomfort, fidget or even ask a question, and you’d find yourself cleaning toilets for a week. Get caught staring around the room or trying to read documents, and you’d be joining Rollins, sleeping with the fishes. Good thing that Bucky had more than mastered the art of looking without looking; he picked at his fingernails and caught the words “amnesty” and “multi-million dollar” and “shipment” on one of the emails. 

When the knock sounded on the doorframe, Bucky didn’t jump; he’d heard the footsteps approaching. He looked up slowly, as if he didn’t care, half expecting Rumlow only to find a man staring at him. His brain registered three things at once. First, the guy was gorgeous, like seriously hot territory, all compact muscles and chocolate brown skin and dark eyes that glinted with an open sense of humor. When he smiled at Bucky, the tiniest space between his front teeth was so perfect that Bucky was glad he’d stayed seated or he might have taken a step the guy’s way. Second, a beautiful piece of artwork covered his right forearm, on display as he offered his hand to Pierce; a falcon in flight, the wings seemed to move as the tendons flexed under his skin. But it was the third thing that froze Bucky in place; just above the hawk was the gang tat for the Eight Trey Crips. 

The fucking Crips. 

The familiar pain flared in his fingers as he clenched them, the scars on his left arm pulling and pinching, an endless reminder of that night. He and Steve had been part of an undercover sting that went bad, a hail of Crip gunfire puncturing their tire; they’d crashed into the guard rail, and Bucky had gone over, windshield shattering and sending him falling. Only reason he still had an arm at all was the surgeon on call at Mercy who did the impossible and years of therapy. But now was not the time; he yanked himself out of the memory as Pierce ushered the man in and shut the door. 

“Thomas, right on time,” Pierce said then motioned towards Bucky. “This is James Sebastian. James, this is Thomas Mackenzie.”

“Seb,” Bucky told the newcomer. He offered a nod but not his hand. 

“Mackie.” The man replied with his own dip of his head. 

“James brought these in this morning.” Pierce had put the pastry on the edge of the desk. “Best in the city.” 

“I do have a sweet tooth.” Mackie’s grin was almost infectious, but Bucky wasn’t taken in. Anyone who’d risen far enough in the Crips to have that tattoo had to be ruthless. “Thanks.” 

As Mackie took his first bite, Bucky saw Rumlow pass the door and glance in; everyone would know of the gang member’s presence in minutes. Pierce quirked one eyebrow, a sure sign he noticed too. 

“It seems that Thomas’s boss and I have a common problem,” Pierce began. “It’s my hope that the two of you can help us solve it.” 

This couldn’t be good. If the Crips were willing to work with the Pagans, there had to be violence in the offing. Infighting between various factions vying for power and turf was bad enough, but if they ever joined forces, it would be so much worse. 

“I have been invited to a conclave this weekend, along with the heads of other organizations,” Pierce continued. “Wolfgang Strucker wants to propose an alliance, one that will benefit us all, according to him.” 

“The leader of the Hell’s Angels wants to talk?” Bucky asked. “That’s a set up for sure.”

“I agree that’s a possibility,” Pierce replied. “But there’s a chance he’s serious; MS-13’s making inroads in both Jersey and New York state, cutting into recruitment and our bottom line. I’ve been making overtures to the Crips, the Bloods, and the Folk Nation about forming a united front; Strucker may be a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, but he didn’t get where he is without keeping his eyes open. It’s a risk that I’m willing to take … which is where you come in. The meeting will take place during his son Werner’s wedding reception; a number of VIPs are guests including the Mayor and the Police Commissioner.” 

Something dinged in Bucky’s memory, an upcoming event that Steve had mentioned, something about the commissioner and undercover ...

“Serious human shields,” Mackie spoke up. “Anyone wanting to take advantage would be bringing a lot of heat down on themselves.” 

“I didn’t know Strucker had that kind of pull,” Bucky said. “Sure, there are some in office who sympathize with Strucker’s Aryan Nation philosophy, but being seen and having their picture taken with him is political suicide.” 

“Ain’t Strucker they’re there for, it’s the bride” Mackie explained. “Stephanie Riley’s a Cuomo and a Kennedy; her uncle’s the Governor.” 

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. “Let me guess, Strucker wants you to come alone, and there’s no way anyone’s getting into the reception to watch your back.”

“Which is exactly why Thomas is here.” Pierce was taking this calmly, his ability to be two steps ahead on display. “He has an invitation for himself and a plus one.” 

Bucky shot the other man a look; Mackie turned up the wattage on his grin. “The bride’s brother and I volunteer at the VA. He’s a groomsman, and he put my name on the guest list so he’d have someone to hang with.” 

What Pierce had said sunk in, and Bucky couldn’t believe it. “Plus one. You want me to go as his date? As if we’re …” 

“It’s the perfect cover,” Pierce explained. “And you’re the best choice for the job. Rumlow wouldn’t be able to carry off the subterfuge.” 

Brock would shit bricks if asked to pretend to be the boyfriend of a black man, that was true. “That would be a trainwreck.”

“Then it’s decided.” Pierce rose from his chair, a sign the meeting was over. “Pack for a weekend in the country, and you’ll need something for the wedding itself.” He handed Bucky a credit card. “You’ll be a fellow veteran, so a decent suit will be fine along with some club wear for the rest of the weekend. We’ll touch base tomorrow at the resort; I’ll contact you.” 

Bucky blinked and stared at the piece of plastic. That had been a clear dismissal, and he knew better than to ask more questions. 

“It’s okay, man, I don’t have anything fancy either,” Mackie said, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s as they walked to the door. “We should leave at four; I’m borrowing a car to get there. Where do you want me to pick you up?” 

“I don’t …” It was all happening too fast for him to process. All he could think was that he needed to get word to Steve; it was a golden opportunity to gather intel and, maybe, get something actionable. 

“There’s a diner in Washington Heights, I’ll text you the address.” Mackie reached out a hand; Bucky passed over his phone. “Got great pancakes if you wanna eat before we go.”

“Yeah, that works.” He glanced at the screen; the number was listed as ‘M.’ 

With a slap on his shoulder and another flash of a smile, the guy was gone and Bucky was alone in the hallway, PIerce already back on the phone. Before Rumlow could corner him and ask questions, Bucky was out of the building and on his bike, kicking up the stand and turning over the engine. He had six hours to get ready and to come to grips with spending a weekend faking a relationship with a Crip while the heads of a bunch of criminal organizations gathered. 

He was so screwed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gangs mentioned in this fic are real; I got the inspiration for their part of the plot from an article about a leader of the Pagan biker gang in NYC who really did try to integrate the ranks with POC and expand the operation. Didn't work out that well for him. 
> 
> The Crips and the Folk Nation gangs are known rivals in areas of the city while the Pagans and the Hells Angels are as well (and both are known for their white supremacist beliefs). 
> 
> The NYC gang task force, as well as the Multi-Agency Task Force in DC, are also real. 
> 
> Otherwise, I pretty much made the rest up. 
> 
> Riley is Sam's wingman mentioned in CA:WS -- in this fic, he's alive, named Michael, and I made him part of the Cuomo and Kennedy extended clan, the closest we get to royalty in the US. 
> 
> So Bucky Barnes is James Sebastian ... yeah, I know. (hehehehehehehehehehehehe)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam really, really doesn't want to deal with James Sebastian; being an undercover ATF agent is hard enough, but a fake date who might be there to take him out? Yeah, that complicates matters. And the fact that Seb is handsome AF and just his type ... well, Sam's not going to think about that. He's got a wedding to attend and some bad guys to take down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta got all the chapters finished, so I'm going to be posting on Saturdays and Thursdays until it's all up!

_ Music playing. _

_ Petals floating. _

_ Glittering in the sun.  _

_ Spinning, reaching, falling.  _

_ Screaming, running, shouting.  _

__

_ “Please. Stay with …”  _

  
  


“You falling asleep over here?” Natasha Romanova’s voice broke through Sam’s reverie, last night’s dream on replay. “Want to switch that decaf for fully leaded before you get behind the wheel?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Sam slid his white porcelain mug across the Formica tabletop. “Not like I’m going to get any shut-eye this weekend anyway.” 

She grabbed a new mug from the counter and filled it from the orange topped pot she was carrying. Only two other booths were occupied at the far end of the room; she slid into the opposite seat, took Sam’s almost full decaf and poured sugar in it, stirring, then taking a long sip. 

“You sure about this?” she asked, dropping her voice to a quiet murmur. “If it’s too much …” 

“Nah, I’m good.” He really, really wasn’t, but he couldn’t see any other way. 

As part of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms task force, Sam had been building street cred for the last year, working his way into the Crips organization. His Thomas Mackenzie identity had been invaluable for getting close to the Crip leader, an ex-military piece of shit who was responsible for more deaths than all three men who held the post before him. “Still can’t believe Barracuda agreed to Pierce’s plan, but I’m not wasting the chance, asshole racist biker pretend boyfriend or not.” 

“Still can’t believe Fury agreed; you know how he is about even the suggestion of a honey pot.” An F.B.I. agent assigned to work with the multi-agency group, Natasha was his contact; she’d been in place as a waitress here for almost as long as Sam.“He only lets me and Clint do fake relationships because we’re sleeping together.” 

“Fucking James Sebastian.” Sam didn’t even want to say the guy’s name, much less spend a weekend pretending to be in love with him. “Have you seen his file? Armed robbery’s the least of his crimes; he’s a suspect in three shootings.” 

“At least it’s not Rumlow,” Natasha reasoned, wrinkling her nose; Brock had made a number of crude passes at her and took every opportunity to touch her ass when he came into the diner. Twice, she’d deflected his interest in other women to keep them safe. “I certainly won’t mind kicking his ass when the time comes.” 

“Rumlow’s assholery is on the surface; this Sebastian character is smarter than that. He flies under the radar,” Sam grumbled. Seb was also a sexy motherfucker, which opened up a can of worms. “Much more dangerous.” 

“I hear he’s hot if you like that tattooed bad boy sort.” Nat’s eyes glittered with mischief; forget the rumors that she was cold-hearted, Sam knew the truth. Never get involved in a prank war with Natasha; she had a sophomoric sense of humor and preternatural stealth. One bucket of ice over his head at 3 a.m. was more than enough to learn his lesson. “Maybe with a sliver of gold in his heart; he lives over the garage where Clint works and brings him cookies from that bakery over on 30th.” 

That raised Sam’s eyebrows; Clint Barton was Natasha’s partner in all ways that mattered. A bit of a maverick despite years working for alphabet agencies, he was an ex-Marine sniper and a damn fine judge of character. His placement wasn’t so much a cover as a part-time job; he was a known fixture as a whiz with engines but a bit of a tire fire in the rest of his life. 

“Really? What does he say about him?” Sam leaned on his elbows and drank some of his coffee. “Spill.” 

“The guy’s got some emotional baggage,” Natasha said. “Doesn’t sleep well, keeps to himself. Apartment is sparse, hardly anything personal. No photos, just a few books, those espionage thrillers. Pretty much works on his bike or hangs with the Pagans; no job at the moment, all under-the-table work.” 

“Staying off the grid.” Sam let the details roll around, fitting them into the picture he was building. “Nothing to identify him with. On the run, maybe?” 

“Brooklyn born and raised,” Natasha reminded him. “Except for a stint in the army.” 

“Un-huh.” That tracked; the boy signed up, shipped out, and an angry man came back. There was more to it, Sam was sure … the way Seb had sat rigidly in that chair, had held out his phone. Something happened to him that changed his view of himself; Sam’s work at the VA had taught him how to read PTSD survivors’ body language. “People want to hide from a lot of different things.” 

The bell over the door rang and the man in question walked in, a duffle slung over one shoulder and a suit bag in the other. He scanned the place like he was casing it, noting each exit and entrance, the location of the till, and every person on the premises. His eyes landed on Sam -- really gorgeous blue eyes -- and he gave a terse nod before heading that way. 

Sam had to give it to the guy; he cleaned up well. He’d traded his denim from this morning for a brown leather jacket with a diagonal closure zipped up halfway with a soft grey henley beneath. The dark washed jeans were snug, highlighting his ass and thighs and a very impressive bulge that Sam absolutely didn’t notice. Natasha gave him the once over; she turned back and wiggled her eyebrows before sliding out of the seat. 

“You can shove your loyalty up your ass,” she said, dropping into her local accent. “Keep your damn secrets; I don’t care, but everyone else is getting pretty tired of it.” 

“It’s not their business.” Sam was back in character, an angry edge to his voice. “And it ain’t yours either.” 

“You’re an asshole, Mackie.” Natasha picked up the cups and the pot then looked at Seb. “You want something? Coffee?” 

“Nah.” Seb shook his head and stayed two steps back from the booth. “Nothing for me.” 

Sam stood up, tossing a five dollar bill on the table. “She’s in a mood,” he said, raising his voice to be heard in the kitchen where she’d gone. “No dealing with her when she’s like this.” 

“And bring that car back without a scratch.” She leaned over the pass-through window. “You know how protective he is.” 

“Whatever.” Sam headed to the doorway, expecting Seb to follow.

“Girlfriend?” Seb asked as soon as they were out on the sidewalk. 

“God, no. She’d kill me and eat me for breakfast. Woman ain’t scared of nothing, and her boyfriend’s stone cold, man. Nah, she’s an old friend, the kind you can’t get rid of.” Sam led them around the corner to where a 1967 Pontiac GTO was parked; the car was a deep purple and practically gleamed in the waning sunlight. 

Seb whistled. “Wow, this is a serious loaner.”

“Can’t show up in an old beater.” Sam opened the trunk so Seb could put his bags inside. “I’m already on Stephanie’s shit list as it is.” 

“What’s the engine on this thing?” Seb asked as he slid into the passenger side bucket seat. He ran a hand over the wood grain dash and the white leather. “And who’s Stephanie?”

Sam could appreciate the man’s awestruck behavior; it was a wet dream of a car. “Turbo hydro-matic 400, fully restored. Stephanie’s the bride and thinks, because she’s related to the Kennedys, her family’s royalty or something. The whole weekend wedding in Montauk is her idea.” 

He started the engine, the roar subsiding to a thrumming vibration. Not for the first time, Sam thought about the way it settled into the base of his spine; hand on the gear shift, he grinned over at Seb who was rubbing his hands along his thighs in anticipation. Giving her gas, Sam pulled out into the flow of traffic, a smooth exercise of power that made his whole body sing. Motorcycles were nice, but this was a different story; Sam could understand why Clint spent so much time underneath and inside beautiful cars like this. 

For a while, they didn’t talk; Sam enjoyed the drive, even the stop and start of the city, crawling on Interboro Parkway, and getting on 495. It was hard to be in a bad mood when the responsive machine jumped at every touch. But eventually they had to discuss the plans for the weekend; after meeting Pierce, Sam was sure he’d told Seb next to nothing about the details. 

“Suppose we ought to know a bit about each other ‘cause people are going to ask,” Sam finally said.

“Yeah.” Seb didn’t seem all that excited. “Wait, if you’re friends with this Riley guy, wouldn’t he know you’re dating someone?”

“Riley and I don’t talk about relationships; when we met, Riley had just come off a bad one and he didn’t want to sit and whine about it.” Sam merged into the left lane and pressed the gas pedal, passing a slower car. “Haven’t really gotten back around to the subject. I mean, he knows I go out, but that’s about it.” 

“You met at the VA, right?” Seb shifted in his seat, spreading his legs, getting comfortable. 

“We were both Air Force and stationed near Kandahar, near each other, but we met here at a group meeting,” Sam explained, keeping his eyes on the road and not his passenger.”You served?”

“Army, Mosul.” He didn’t offer any more on that subject, just laid his arm along the window sill and stared at the passing buildings. 

Damn it, Sam could do this; he was supposed to be a guy with a long rap sheet who wouldn’t be intimidated by silence. “So we’ve got that in common. I guess we could go with meeting at a bar; you hang out anywhere that’s not filled with all white dudes?” 

Seb’s shoulders squared up at the not-subtle dig. “I prefer drinking at home,” he answered. “Costs too much for watered down beer at most places, and the loud bass at dance clubs gives me headaches.” 

“Right, plus I doubt you’ve ever been in a gay bar.” Didn’t matter if the guy was subtle about it, Pagans were notoriously anti-LGBTQIA. That he’d agreed to do this said more about his loyalty to Pierce than his open-mindedness. “At the bank? Tinder? Set up by friends? Liquor store? Grocery in the fruits and vegetables?” 

“The car,” he said. “I restore bikes, you’ve got this beauty …”

“... I brought it to a mechanic at your shop a couple months ago. We went out for a beer, and here we are.” The best lie was one close to the truth, and Clint and Natasha were always trying to set Sam up. 

The miles ticked by; Seb kept rubbing his fingers on the leather seat, and Sam tapped his on the steering wheel. An awkward silence filled the car; Sam was already keyed up about the next 24 hours, and adding a fake boyfriend who’d be up in his business the whole time took his anxiety to a whole other level. How he was going to do his job with a sexy but moody white boy following him around was the question of the day. 

“Should call me James,” Seb said suddenly. 

“James?” Sam risked a glance over and saw intense blue eyes staring back at him. 

“Guys at the clubhouse call me Seb. You should use James,” he explained. 

“Yeah.” Sam rolled the name in his head; it felt far too intimate on his tongue. “You okay with pet names, tho? Gettin’ all sweet on someone is a sure fire way to clear a room.” 

“Ain’t that true.” Seb’s very soft-looking lips curled up at the edges. “Friend used to date this girl who called him Sugar Lumps. It was embarrassing as hell.” 

“Sugar …” Sam whistled. “And I thought snookums was bad; don’t think I could handle that.” 

“Well, she gave great blow jobs, from what he said, so he put up with it … that is until she started leaving wedding magazines on the table. Six weeks and she was looking at dresses.” The curl became a full fledged smile. “He’s not the best at stating boundaries; me, I tell ‘em I’m just looking for a good fuck or two straight up.” 

A flush of heat ran down Sam’s spine and pooled in his crotch at that word falling from Seb’s mouth. “Then we’ll get along just fine,” he said with a bit of gravel in his voice. 

They didn’t talk the rest of the way. No one made a move to turn on the radio or try to restart the conversation, not until they were turning into the entrance to Gurney’s Resort and Seawater Spa, driving past rows of parked BMWs and Mercedes, coming to a stop at the lobby entrance where valets rushed over. 

“Jesus,” Seb muttered, half under his breath. “How did Strucker stumble into this lifestyle?” 

“Werner went to Harvard,” Sam said as he took the keys out of the ignition. “Movin’ on up indeed.” 

A valet opened each door; the one on Sam’s side, a pimply teenager who was practically stroking the GTO with his eyes. “Park for you, sir?” 

“Hell no.” Sam glared at the kid. “Nobody touches this car but me. I better not find a single fingerprint when I get back.” 

“Aw, come on, doll. Give him a break; Ginger here would give a eunuch a hard on.” Seb was grinning as he sauntered around the car. “Pop this thing and let’s get checked in, will ya? I wanna walk on the beach.”

Doll. Sam almost gulped at the endearment. Like night and day, Seb was suddenly all smiles with a friendly face. And as he opened the trunk, Seb stepped close and brushed against him as he reached in for his bags, his body warm in the cool of the approaching evening. 

“Shall I take those?” the valet asked. 

“Nah, we got ‘em,” Seb answered. 

By the time they made it to the front desk, Sam was beginning to feel that familiar itch between his shoulder blades. A quick survey of the room netted only three other African Americans -- the main bellman, a waiter carrying a tray of drinks out of the bar, and a woman seated in the corner. Everywhere else he saw pale skin, most of it covered in expensive clothes that were supposed to be casual wear. The whole place spoke of old money and smelled of snobbery and elitism. The two of them were the center of many subtle and some not so subtle glances; a rather large party of people in their late twenties stopped talking as they passed. Sam recognized Werner Von Strucker from the announcement in the paper. 

“Two are Hells Angels enforcers,” Seb said as they got in line at the front desk. “The ones that look like they walk on their knuckles.” 

“Damn it.” Sam continued his scan and saw more problems. “The money behind the Bloods is in the far left corner, and that’s the Congresswoman who’s a cousin of the Folk Nation leader.” 

“That your car out there?” Werner Von Strucker approached them, addressing himself to Seb. He was shorter than both of them; of a slimmer build, he drew himself up as he came up to them. “Quite a looker.” 

“Not mine,” Seb said, stepping closer to Sam. “It’s Mackie’s pride and joy, right, doll?” 

Werner’s eyes narrowed as he focused in on Sam. “Yours? Machine like that takes some serious cash to keep up.” 

Seb bristled, his shoulders going back as his face dropped into a deadly murder stare. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Sam forestalled the other man’s response with his own. “You asking if I stole it? ‘Cause that would be a racist thing to think.” 

“Hey, just stating the obvious.” The little shit grinned, all smarmy and filled with hate. “Not my problem if you take it the wrong way. Just that you don’t look like the type, that’s all. You and your … friend … don’t exactly fit in here.”

“And what type are we?” Seb all but growled, the danger in his voice making the hairs at the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “‘Cause from where I’m standing you look like a racist piece of …” 

“Mackie! So glad you made it!” Michael Riley inserted himself into the conversation, pushing past Werner to give Sam a big hug. “My God, dude, that GTO is the GOAT, seriously. You have to let me get behind the wheel this weekend. I bet it purrs like nobody’s business.” 

“He won’t even let me drive it,” Seb interjected, eyes still on Werner, “and I give him blow jobs.” 

Riley laughed but Werner grimaced, his distaste plain. 

“Riley, this is James. James, Riley.” Sam introduced the two. He really did like Riley, and he hoped to keep the friendship after he was done with this assignment; he’d kept the two things separate but now, with work colliding, he wasn’t sure what would happen. 

“Nice to meet you.” Riley shook Seb’s hand. “Mackie’s told me literally nothing about you, but anyone who can put up with his bullshit is okay in my book. You’ll have to tell me everything.” 

“Don’t start,” Sam warned. “We haven’t been dating that long; you’ll run him off.” 

“I don’t scare easily,” Seb said, giving Werner a hard look. “Been out of the closet long enough to deal.” 

“Good.” Riley slung his arm across Seb’s shoulders. “Then I hope you don’t mind that I had to change your reservation; we ran over the allotted rooms, so I moved you in with me to open one up. The family booked a couple of the cottages, and mine has an unclaimed sleeper sofa. Great view of the beach and a fully stocked kitchen. We can hole up until the ceremony tomorrow.” He started to walk away then pretended to see Werner. “Oh, hey! There you are. Steffie’s looking for you, something about Aunt Cynthia and last minute seating arrangements? She needs you to break the news to your cousin Marvin. She was coming this way …”

Werner cursed. “I’m going to get dressed for the rehearsal dinner,” he said. “Tell her I’ll see her there.” 

They watched as he hightailed it out of there, the others in his group following after him. 

“Let’s get out of here before Steffie really does show up,” Riley said. “Weddings, man. If I ever get married, I’m running off to Vegas.” 

The GTO was where they left it, under the watchful eye of the valet; Seb slipped into the back seat and let Riley take the front as they drove down to the seashore to park in front of a wooden shingled building with numbered doors. 

“Sorry about Werner,” Riley said as they got out. “He plays a good game in front of Steffie and Mom, but he’s rotten.”

“Yeah, we got that.” Sam followed as Riley opened the door and led them into a small foyer. 

“Those guys he hangs with are just as bad.” Riley took the stairs on the left; they emptied into a small kitchen, an area with a couch plus two chairs, and wall to wall windows that looked out over the beach. A bathroom was tucked under the stairs. “Know their types, the kind of guys who enlist because they love violence.” 

“Hey, Mikey! Jager bombs!” Three younger men were crowded around the bar that separated the kitchen from living space, all with the similar features and tousled brown hair. “Got to get liquored up before the rehearsal dinner, man. No way we’re facing Aunt Gertie without some fortification.” 

“These are my cousins,” Riley told Sam. “The twins -- Jarrod and Jakob … that’s Andy pouring … where’s Robbie?” 

“Didn’t move fast enough; he got caught by Uncle Richard,” Andy said. 

“Uncle Richard can’t remember anyone’s name,” Riley filled them in. “He makes one of the younger set stay with him at all times during events so they can say the name first.”

“And all he talks about is how terrible our generation is,” one of the twins complained. “He’s worse than Grandpa.” 

“You guys want a shot?” the other twin asked, holding out a small glass filled with the sticky dark liquor. “Plenty to go around; we made a liquor store run.” 

“No thanks.” Sam turned him down and Seb shook his head. 

“All, this is Mackie and James. They’re going to crash on the couch, so you’ll have to keep your loudness and mess contained,” Riley said.

“Your buddy Mackie?” Andy asked. “Hey, James, you Air Force too? Tell me I’m not outnumbered here.” 

“Army,” Seb answered. 

“Booyah!” Andy held out a fist and Seb gently bumped it. “I’m ROTC, hope to get into the Rangers, man.”

“That’s a good gig,” Seb agreed. “Tough row to hoe, but worth it.” 

“Finally, someone on my side. I like you,” Andy said. 

“Hey, did you hear Robbie got into med school?” one of the twins asked. “Just got the email an hour ago.”

“Thought he was doing a gap year, travel the world, do the Peace Corps thing,” Riley said. 

“HIs dad threw a fit, said he’d cut him off if he did, so he applied. Gonna get the degree then join Doctors Without Borders and tell the ‘rents to kiss his ass.” The twin downed another shot then groaned as his phone chimed. “Damn it, we better get changed. Great Aunt Lil is on the warpath about us putting on a good face for the, and I quote, ‘white trash Steffie’s rolling in’.” 

“Jarrod.” His brother smacked him in the arm. “Not in front of Mikey.”

“Come on, Werner doesn’t even bother pretending, unlike his dad.” Jarrod was swaying a little on his feet. “And it’s not like Steffie hasn’t made it plain this is a fuck-you, Hail Mary move to the family. Mikey already knows what’s what.” 

“Yeah, but you don’t just say it, dude,” Andy agreed. 

“Guys.” Riley broke into what was shaping up to be a drunken argument. “Ties aren’t optional, so I suggest you go get dressed ASAP unless you want to explain to Grandma why you’re late.” 

“One more!” Jarrod took the last round, and they shot them together. “Unto the breach, my friends!” 

They tromped up the stairs, voices echoing as they went into the bedrooms. 

“If they’re going to be too much, I can get you a room,” Riley offered. “Might be at another hotel, but…” 

“Nah, man, we’re good,” Sam said, knowing they needed to stay close if they were going to scope out the situation. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’ either, paying for this place. Lunches will be on me for the next few months.” 

“Well, I did invite you into this chaos, and, of course, Steffie picked the most expensive resort, and I do have the extra bed …” 

“Go get dressed for your dinner thing. James and I’ll be fine. Gonna take a walk on the beach and take it easy for the night,” Sam promised. 

“There’s plenty of sandwich fixings in the fridge and, as you can see, there’s beer and enough liquor to float a boat, so help yourself,” Riley said. “Bachelor party’s at the Regent, a building over from here; it’s an open bar and I put your name on the guest list. Starts at nine. Strucker’s going all out with top shelf shit, so come have some whiskey, plus it’ll piss Werner off.”

“Which? Mackie’s skin color or gay public displays of affection?” James asked. 

“Both. Both are good,” Riley replied with a laugh. 

It took a good thirty minutes for them to clear out of the cottage; the cousins had to have another round of shots then they saw the GTO and Jakob had to be dragged away from the car, still shouting questions as he went. Only when the place fell silent did Sam realize how small the couch was, how exposed they were going to be. 

“Got a map of the resort,” Seb said, ignoring Sam’s awkward pause in the doorway. “This place is crazy big. I’m going to walk around, get the lay of the land. Don’t like not knowing where anybody is.” 

He didn’t directly invite Sam along, but he didn’t outright say he wanted to go alone either. “Yeah, if there’s Folk Nation around, we’re going to have a problem; wonder how many more factions are here?” 

“Pretty sure Werner knows who I am.” Seb pocketed his phone and took a hoodie out of his bag. “One of the other guys and I had a run-in a while back.” 

“That could be a problem.” Sam knew that the Pagans and Hells Angels hated each other almost as much as the Crips and the Folk Nation. That was why this meeting was so fraught with peril; Strucker making overtures of peace was like the scorpion promising not to sting the frog as they crossed the river. Sam wasn’t buying it any more than he expected Seb was. “You think they’ll try something?” 

“Depends upon what the end goal is.” He took off his jacket and slipped the hoodie on over his henley. “They could just be watching, making sure none of the other parties try anything, like we are. Or …” 

“They’re to keep anyone from stopping whatever’s going to happen.” Sam went for the sweater he’d packed; it would get cold once the sun went down. “They’ll know I’m friends with Riley, damn it. That’ll put him in their crosshairs.” 

“We keep the attention on ourselves. Easy enough to stand out around here.” Seb gave him a real smile, one of the first Sam had seen. Its wattage sent little tendrils of heat that Sam ignored. “Now, about that romantic stroll …” 

The breeze off the water was growing cool, the sun already sinking towards the west. They headed north, carrying their shoes, barefeet in the sand, passing the rows of chairs and a wooden cabana with tied back curtains. Quite a number of guests loitered about, some gathered around an outdoor bar, others taking blankets from the resort employees as fires were lit in various pits. 

Not five minutes after leaving the cottage, they saw the first sets of eyes, a woman and a man Sam recognized. Seb caught the second group drinking beer and sitting on a deck; he leaned in close and held out his hand. “MIght as well be obvious.” 

Sam hesitated for a heartbeat; something flickered behind Seb’s eyes, something that might have been a hint of hurt. Before Seb could withdraw the offer, Sam caught his hand, slipping his palm over Seb’s and interweaving their fingers together. 

“Of course, babe,” he said at normal volume. “I’ll keep you warm.” 

The first thought that registered was the warmth seeping through his skin; it traveled up his arm, a slow wash of heat that settled in his chest, a spike at his bicep, and another in his gut. Then he felt the callouses on the pointer and at the curve near the thumb, the kind that came from familiarity with guns, mirrors to the ones on his own hand. Falling into step without noticing, their gaits matched easily, even with the shifting sand beneath them. Synced breaths, in and out, awareness expanding on his right, letting Seb take the left flank like he belonged there. It should have rattled him, the way he so easily accepted it, but there were more known faces the further they walked, danger on all sides, and, damn it, Sam was getting the feeling he was out-of-his-depth here, alone without backup.

Maybe they were both screwed, Sam thought, or maybe Seb was waiting for the right moment to turn on him. Either way, there was nothing to do but keep going. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riley in CA:WS has no first name that I can find nor any family affiliations. I've taken the liberty here to give him both. In New York state, the Kennedy clan is closely tied to the Cuomos, and they're all very involved in politics. 
> 
> Wolfgang Von Strucker and his son Werner are some of my favorite villains, along with Alexander Pierce. 
> 
> Hey, you didn't think I could write a story without Clint Barton hanging around somehow, did you?
> 
> The resort exists -- I've sort of stayed within the footprint of the various buildings here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bachelor party is supposed to be fun, right? Bucky doesn't have time to enjoy the expensive whiskey, not when there are dangerous bigotted assholes to deal with and Riley to protect. And that simmering attraction to Mackie? No way he's going to let it derail this job. In fact, the only thing that might throw him off his game is getting his soul mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning note: Certain bad guy characters use racist and sexist language. There's also ableist language in the name of one of the gangs.

_Music playing._

_White petals._

_A hand squeezing his._

_“... figure it out.”_

_Gun in his palm._

_Blood between his fingers._

_A woman screaming, sounds of running, voices shouting._

_“Stay with me.”_

“What can I get you?” 

Steve’s voice broke through Bucky’s reverie; on the other side of the bar, Steve was filling two martini glasses. Glancing up, Bucky met his friend’s concerned gaze; and, yeah, he was a little off his game, dangerously distracted by the images that were seeping from his dreams into his waking hours. Ever since their walk around the resort, the phantom feel of Mackie’s hand clung to Bucky’s own, as if the touch had never ended, grown distant but still very much in contact. 

When they’d returned to the cottage, someone had been there in their absence, Bucky’s bag unzipped and Mackie’s moved slightly. Glad he’d tucked his gun into his waistband before they left, Bucky assumed the place had been bugged and the list of potential perpetrators was long. Six different gangs were accounted for around the hotel’s various buildings, some of the people with long rap sheets and one on the NYPD’s most wanted. It was a damn convention of high-level bad guys, and Bucky was beginning to feel like he was the only one who didn’t get the memo about what was going down. 

He’d managed to text Steve during a cigarette break -- and he was going to have to get back on the patch when this was all over -- and send him a warning. He was more than happy to find out that D.I.C. Carter was on top of things, placing Steve to work tonight’s party and the reception. Steve’s bartending skills had come in useful many times, his years of working various New York clubs and bars leaving him with a long list of verifiable past employers. Knowing he had Steve as back up made dealing with the increasingly drunk cousins and the mixed-signals Mackie was broadcasting easier. 

But it didn’t take away the strange niggling feeling of pins and needles that had settled between his shoulder blades or the growing sense of apprehension that haunted the edges of his awareness. There’d been no time to ascertain whether Mackie was a pawn in all this or part of the bigger plot; he could be just as in the dark as Bucky was. Even more confusing was Mackie’s friendship with Michael Riley. For all intents and purposes, Riley was a likable guy, a good man who’d served his country and cared about his family, and that spoke volumes about Mackie’s own character. He’d been polite and funny when talking to Riley and his cousins, and he was so damn intuitive that Bucky barely had to say anything. They moved together, communicated through glances, and fell into place like some of the long-term partners Bucky had seen on the force. 

“Whiskey.” Bucky’s order was a hair’s breadth late and Steve raised one eyebrow in an unvoiced question. With a shake of his head to let his friend know he was alright, Bucky added, “Neat.” 

“Make that two,” Mackie said as he came over to the bar.

“Three and double ‘em up.” Riley leaned on the other side of Mackie. “We’re going to need it to survive the weekend. McCallan’s if you have it.” 

They’d arrived moments ago, but the room was already packed, most of the men younger than Bucky’s 29 years. Absent were most of the gang members they’d identified earlier; this party seemed to be limited to family members and actual friends the same age as the groom.

“Oh my God, they’re tapping a keg.” Mackie rolled his eyes. “Tell me there’s no strippers. Please.” 

“Werner vetoed them.” Riley took the glass Steve passed over and drank a long swallow. “But Steffie’s maid-of-honor got Chippendales for her bash.” 

A cheer went up as beer foamed out of the nozzle and glasses were hastily shoved under the impromptu fountain; someone had at least thought ahead and put the keg in a metal container that caught most of the spillage. 

“Animal House,” Bucky muttered. “It’s like a freakin’ frat party.” 

“Yeah, it’s the college set,” Riley said. “When all the family’s together, there’s a mess of ‘em. Rileys, Cumos, Schlossbergs, Kennedys --- in-laws and steps, second and third and twice removed --- we’re a big clan.”

“Hey, come help.” A man with a Gurney’s name tag pointed at Steve. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to Bucky, Mackie, and Riley, “I just need him for a moment. He’ll refill your drinks as soon as he gets back.” 

Crossing the room, the man directed Steve and another employee; in a few moments, they were lifting the keg onto a platform and rolling it onto the outside deck. By Bucky’s count, over 20 people followed, spilling into the tarp-covered area where heaters cut the fall chill; the way they were drinking, none of them would feel the cold much longer anyway. 

“There you are, Mikey; been trying to track you down all day. I need your opinion on the military bill I’m working on for the Senator, to run some ideas by you.” The man who asked was in a pair of expensive khakis and a button-up dress shirt. “We really could use a voice from the inside about the VA funding for …” 

Riley looked back over his shoulder as he was dragged away; Mackie raised his glass in salute and merely chuckled at his friend’s predicament. 

“I do not envy that,” Mackie said. “There’s some serious family drama he has to deal with.” 

Mackie was close, real close; Bucky could smell the cologne he’d dabbed on before they left the cottage, and it was doing all sorts of things to his concentration. The taste of fine whiskey on Bucky’s tongue only heightened the throb of interest as Mackie swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down on the line of his throat. Why was he so damn attracted to this guy?

“Heads up,” Mackie murmured as he leaned in. He put his glass on the bar, then his hand was sliding around Bucky’s waist, coming to rest on his hip just seconds before lips brushed the bottom lobe of his ear. “Incoming.” 

“Gentlemen.” 

Bucky turned his head to see Werner Von Strucker standing just behind them. 

“I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot this afternoon.” With a bashful shrug and a drop of his chin, Werner looped his thumbs through his belt. “My fault. I was an asshole and I owe you an apology.” 

Mackie didn’t move, but Bucky shifted his body so Mackie had his back covered. He gave Werner his best murder stare and neither of them spoke. 

“Right, look, it’s an excuse, I know, but Stephanie’s family is, well, let’s just say I don’t quite meet their standards.” He did the shrug again, and Bucky almost bought into his aw-shucks act except for the fact that he’d read the NYPD file on the Struckers and knew this guy had been raised in a neo-nazi household where Hilter was a role model. Riley’s family might be elitist white snobs, but they weren’t selling anything Werner hadn’t already heard at home. “This whole thing’s gotten out-of-control; we wanted a small wedding on the beach, nothing big, but here we are.” 

“Atlantic City,” Mackie said. Werner blinked at the non sequitur. “A weekend at a casino; justice of the peace, honeymoon suite, some blackjack. That’s what I’d do.” 

“Aw, doll.” Bucky tilted his head back so he could look up at Mackie. “That’s romantic as fuck, but it’s too soon.” 

White teeth flashed as Mackie grinned, and then, before Bucky could register what was happening, warm lips brushed across his. A thrumming vibrated in his inner ears, a twisting tightened in his chest, and prickling rose between his shoulder at the barely-there touch. Mackie’s fingers tightened on his hip, and a line of scorching heat flared between the two points of contact. 

“Drink some more whiskey, babe, and I’ll show you how romantic I can be,” Mackie said, his voice a husky whisper that weaved around Bucky’s senses.  
  


“Wow, okay.” Werner broke the spell; he looked supremely uncomfortable. “So, you two met at the VA with Riley?” 

“Nah,” Bucky didn’t take his eyes away from Mackie’s as he answered. “Ginger brought us together.” 

“Ginger?” Werner asked, confused. 

“Ginger or Mary Ann, and the GTO’s definitely a Ginger,” Bucky explained. “Mackie brought her in when she was still a rusting hulk -- one of the guys in the garage specializes in muscle cars -- and that’s how we met.” 

“James works on motorcycles.” Mackie broke their eye contact to look at Werner. “Man’s an artist when it comes to two wheels.” 

“Really?” Werner’s gaze narrowed in on Bucky. “Restoration or rebuilds?” 

“Both,” Bucky said. “Restoring a Kawasaki Z1 900 right now, but I’ve done some custom work on Harleys and Hondas.” 

“A ‘72?” He’d certainly piqued Werner’s interest. 

“‘75, pretty much held together by rust and duct tape. I’m rebuilding the engine from the ground up.” And he really was; Clint had heard from a friend of a friend about it, and Bucky had only needed one look to fall in love. A nice older lady had bought a house, complete with a garage filled with all sorts of junk; she was happy to get any money for the old bike, much less a couple of thousand. “Old boy’s going to leave newer machines in the dust.” 

“You thinking of selling when you’re done? I’d be interested. Dad’s always talking about the ‘72 he had once upon a time.” Werner turned up his good-old-boy persona. 

“Nah, I’m keeping it, but I do have a Suzuki I’ve got an eye on, same era, one of the early releases.” Bucky snagged the hook deeper, thinking ahead of ways to keep an eye on the Struckers. “And if you find a chassis you like, I can work on it.” 

“I might take you up on that once everything’s settled.” Werner glanced over his shoulder as a rush of voices came in through the doorway; the younger set was heading for the buffet table. “God, I’m really looking forward to the honeymoon; a week of doing nothing sounds great right about now.” 

“Werner!” The man who slung his arm around Werner’s shoulders took one look at Bucky and Mackie and immediately dismissed them. “You ignoring old friends for new ones? Come on, time for shots!” 

“I’m not getting drunk,” Werner objected. “I told you already.” 

“I hear ya, but top-shelf tequila is calling my name, and you can come keep me company, can’t you?” He began to pull Werner away. 

“Sorry again,” Werner called back as he was dragged backward. “Have some drinks, enjoy yourselves.” 

“Jesus, he’s a piece of work,” Mackie murmured once he was out of earshot. “Trying to sell the ‘I’m like you’ line? What a racist prick.” 

“Do you know who that last guy was?” Bucky asked. “That’s Wilhelm Whitehall, son of Representative Whitehall from upstate. Card-carrying member of the Aryan Nation.” 

“Old friends, I bet.” Mackie took a long drink of his whiskey. “If we asked, he’d say he was just here for his buddy’s wedding like all the others. Too many, dude. There’s too many of ‘em.” 

Bucky agreed; he’d counted in over 25 suspicious people. Something was most definitely up. 

“Refill?” Steve asked. “Another double?” 

“Two,” Bucky told him, motioning to include Mackie. 

“Coming right up.” 

“Mackie!” Jakob called, his plate loaded with shrimp and fancy little bites. “You gotta talk some sense into this idiot. He thinks the Space Force should recruit from the army. The army, man. Come take my side on this.” 

“Go defend your honor,” Bucky told him, pushing Mackie towards the chattering group. “I’ll hold down the bar.” 

“I hate you,” Mackie shot back, but he was grinning as he picked up his fresh drink. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come and save me.”

Bucky snorted as he left; Mackie’s ass was a nice distraction and Bucky watched him walk away. 

“You like him.” Steve was pouring a tray of tequila shots. 

“Don’t start.” Bucky didn’t look Steve’s way. “Not my type.” 

“Just saying,” Steve said. “Be careful.”

“Always.” 

Bucky managed to nurse his drink for the next forty minutes, then Riley scooped him up and urged him to the buffet. Eating meant he didn’t have to talk, so that worked for almost an hour, nibbling and keeping his plate filled. He circled the room, moved from the conversations to a quiet corner, and switched over to plain soda in a whiskey glass. As he was staying sober, everyone else was descending quickly into drunk and drunker territory. Music started, some were trying, and failing, to play poker in the corner, and the volume was getting louder by the minute. 

Someone ordered pizza and a large stack of boxes arrived from a little joint down the road; it was good and Bucky helped himself to a couple of pieces, then a couple more as it steadily disappeared. He didn’t join the impromptu beer pong game, but he did go out onto the deck to watch the idiots who decided skinny dipping would ‘cool them down,’ running buck naked across the sand and into the ice-cold water. 

At a point, the restaurant became too crowded and Bucky began to feel the crawl of anxiety over his skin, so he bummed a cigarette from Robbie and escaped out into the darkness to stand in the sand. The glow of the match faded quickly and he took a drag, the smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled. 

“Looks like you’re having fun.” Brock Rumlow emerged from the shadowy path that led up the hill to the main lodge. “Mixing with the rich bastards, eh?” 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky flicked the ash Rumlow’s way as if he didn’t give a fuck about the answer. 

Rumlow snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you interested in getting into that Crips’ pants or is it one of those twinks you’re staying with? Looking for a young ass to bottom for you?” 

Crudeness was Rumlow’s default setting and how he got under people’s skin; Bucky ignored it and refused to take the bait. “What’s got your panties in a twist, Brock?” 

“Hey, is it true? That black guys have big dicks?” Rumlow kept pushing because that’s what he was, a bully and a racist. “You get down on your knees for him or take that monster cock …” 

It was time to shut Brock down before someone overheard. “For a homophobe, you’re awfully fascinated by dicks. You been watching gay porn, Brock?” 

“Shut your mouth,” Rumlow shot back. “I ain’t no queer, but I’m beginning to think you are.” 

“Everything alright, James?” Riley came down the steps and stopped beside him. 

“Just having a smoke,” Bucky said. “Gotta go outside nowadays to enjoy a cigarette.” 

“Mackie was looking for you.” Riley made no bones about sizing up Rumlow. “But he got cornered by Werner; I think he’s apologizing again.”

“You should run back in,” Rumlow said, a sneer in his voice. “Sounds like your boyfriend misses you.” 

“Look,” Riley said, widening his stance and putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t know who you are, but this is a private party, and you should stop bothering the guests.” 

“Listen you jumped up little shit …” 

Rumlow took a step forward, and Bucky saw a glint of metal in his hand; in a quick move, Bucky flicked what was left of his cigarette into the sand and stepped between the two men. 

“Go back inside,” he said to Riley. “I’ve got this.” 

“James,” Riley hesitated. 

“Please,” Bucky added. 

He wasn’t happy about it but Riley went, and Bucky was sure he was headed straight to Mackie and would drag half the cousins into this mess if Bucky didn’t get it sorted quickly. 

“Going soft, I see,” Rumlow said, pocketing the switchblade. “Over a black guy and a rich kid. Thought you were hard like me, do what needs to be done.”

“Following orders isn’t going soft,” Bucky told Rumlow. “Remember Rollins.” 

“Don’t toss Jack in my face,” Rumlow said with a scowl. “You think you’ve got this all figured out, well, maybe you’re the one being played for a fool, you think of that? Keep kissing Pierce’s ass, and he’ll drag you down with him. You change your mind about being his butt monkey, let me know. Otherwise, there’s a big ocean out there; he’ll make sure nobody finds your body.” 

With that threat, Rumlow disappeared between cottages, making his way back up the hill. Bucky counted to twenty then let out a long breath. His nerves jangled, fight or flight neurons firing, telling him he was in serious trouble. Took a lot of effort to put on his game face and step back inside, to be calm as he crossed the room, so many eyes following his progress to the bar. Before he could even order, Steve was pouring a whiskey and watching Bucky’s every expression.

“Hey, babe.” Mackie was there before Steve finished. “Smoking, eh? Thought you were giving those things up?” 

“Hard habit to break. You know how it is. Think you’ve got it kicked then it shows up again,” Bucky answered, leaning in so he could lower his voice. “Had a visitor; we might be in even more trouble.” 

“Yeah, I got that vibe. Just had a shit ton of questions about our ‘plans’ for tomorrow.” Mackie was so close, just a thin inch of space between them. “Scapegoats?” 

“Or sacrificial lambs,” Bucky said as he watched Riley head their way. “Rumlow’s here.”

“You okay?” Riley asked. 

“He was just a belligerent drunk; he’s not worth the effort.” 

“I’m not dumb.” Riley eyed them both. “I know there’s more going on than that.” 

“What’s going on is that we’re heading back to the room, if that’s okay,” Mackie said then took the initiative, closing that last bit of distance so they were pressed back to chest. 

Warmth surrounded Bucky and another flare of prickling. For a heartbeat, Bucky wished it was true, that they were what they were pretending to be, two new lovers, on their first weekend away at a romantic resort with nothing to do but sleep and fuck and drink and lay in the sun. A big bed with fresh sheets and room service and no reason to do anything at all. But it wasn’t and Bucky couldn’t afford to be distracted. The wolves were circling and he needed all his wits about him to navigate the next twenty-four hours. 

“I’ll come with you,” Riley said. He glanced over to where Werner was surrounded by his friends. “I’m done here anyway.” 

If Bucky had wanted time to strategize, it wasn’t to be. They barely started for the door before the twins saw them; by the time they left the restaurant, there was a crowd following, a big chunk of the young set, decamping for the back deck of the cottage and fanning out on the beach. Someone found a stash of cut wood for the firepit, and others dragged the coffee table outside to make a bar, depositing all the bottles they’d carried with them as well as the ones they’d bought earlier. Music came from Bluetooth speakers and women appeared from the other cottages, more cousins and nieces that even Riley had a hard time keeping up with. The bachelor party had turned into a family one; an aunt called in an order, and the makings of s’mores arrived along with sandwiches and other simpler fare. 

Twice, Bucky thought he saw Rumlow in the shadows, and Mackie kept a count of other potential threats who wandered by. None of them made any disruptive moves so they said nothing, but Riley noticed. At some point, Bucky ended up sharing a lounger with Mackie, the two squished together on the waterproof cushion; last night’s dream-riddled sleep caught up to him, and he was practically dozing, his head on Mackie’s shoulder, body relaxed. Somehow his arm was resting across Mackie’s waist, his fingers on his belt loops, just the index and middle idly tracing figure eights on the sliver of skin where Mackie’s shirt had come loose. Mackie was talking, his voice a deep vibration that lulled Bucky even further under with each word. 

  
  


_“Have you figured it out?”_

_“Watch out!”_

“No.” He jerked awake, the image of red behind his eyelids. A searing pain spread across his back, his breaths came too fast, the adrenaline rushing in his ears from the half-formed images. 

“Hey.” Mackie’s hand covered his, gentle and soft. The pain dimmed, settled into an ache. “It’s just a dream, man.” 

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand over his head, missing the longer hair he preferred, reminding him starkly of who he was pretending to be. “Time to call it a night, I think.” 

“Take my bed,” Riley said from his seat next to them. “These guys’ll keep going for hours, and it’s already …” he checked his watch, “...3:37.”

“I’m fine with the couch,” Bucky argued. “You’re giving us a place to crash, so I can’t put you out.” 

“It’s a California King; I was going to share with Robbie anyway. You and Mackie can take it,” Riley insisted. “Got an attached bathroom for a little privacy; there’s a chaise lounge by the window I can use.” 

“Go to bed, babe. I’ll hang out here a while longer, help Riley keep an eye on this batch of mischief-makers.” 

This time, Mackie’s lips brushed his forehead, a sweet good night kiss that was somehow more intimate than a full-on, mouth-to-mouth press. Bucky hesitated for another few seconds, but he really was wiped out and knew he needed to get some rest. He’d need to be firing on all cylinders tomorrow. 

“Yeah, okay.” It was harder to push away from Mackie’s warmth than he expected. “Thanks.” 

He grabbed his bag from the living room, nodding to Jarrod and the gaggle of others gathered around the kitchen counter munching off the food trays and steadily emptying beer bottles. Up the stairs, he shut the bedroom door and the noise level dropped to manageable. He’d slept in much worse circumstances in Afghanistan in the heat and dust, on camp cots in drafty tents; this was luxury in comparison. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed, thanking his foresight in packing sweats and an Under Armor shirt to sleep in. Tugging off his henley, he caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror and stopped cold. 

Wings spread across his shoulder blades, lines darker near his spine and lightening as they reached towards his biceps, only partially sketched.

A soul mark. 

New.

Growing.

And right in the middle was a name. 

He squinted to make out the letters. 

The first one in focus was an … M. 

“No. Fuck no. Hell no.” 

He turned and saw there were three letters, reflected in reverse so he flipped them around.

S A M

“Sam?” Bucky stared at the name. “Who the fuck is Sam?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kawasaki Z1 900s were introduced in 1972 and they were revolutionary. My brother had a '74 during his phase of dragging home old rusted cars and bikes that he was going to fix up one day.
> 
> A blink and you'll miss it cameo of William Whitehall, a HYDRA guy from AOS.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's got a whole day of pretending to be something he's not -- a gang member and dating a Pagan -- so he really doesn't need anything else to juggle. Dealing with Clint and Nat's ribbing is one thing, but Alexander Pierce too? 
> 
> Then Fate goes and decides to be a bitch ... hello soulmark!

_ Music playing. _

_ White petals floating through the air. _

_ Interlaced fingers. _

_ Glittering in the sun.  _

_ “Watch out!” _

_ Spinning, reaching, falling.  _

_ Blood staining cotton.  _

_ A woman screaming, sounds of running, voices shouting.  _

__

_ “... Please stay with me …”  _

  
  


The sound of the ocean surf greeted Sam as he came awake, lingering words echoing in his ears. He tried to hold onto the dream, but it faded under the comfortable soft sheets and the warmth of the body lying next to him. Turning his head, he saw a sleeping James Sebastian and promptly forgot everything else. Face squashed into the pillow, Seb looked younger, brow smooth and lips slightly parted. Sam’s eyes lingered on the curve of a cheek and the curl of dark lashes that rested against it; Seb’s hand was cupped under him, elbow bent as he lay on his side. His other arm was draped across his chest, his fingers on the white down comforter just inches from Sam’s forearm. 

For the first time, Sam got a good look at the tattoos that started at his elbow and ran all the way to Seb’s knuckles. The one at his wrist was a Celtic torc that wrapped all the way around with intricate swirls and angles. It was older, black faded to grey, and matched the tendrils that snaked across the back of his hand. Above that was an abstract tat of jagged lines, red with dark outlines; it too was older, a random design that somehow was both beautiful and sharp-edged. The others were different; a skull with flowers and a tribal set of stripes, too bright and new, almost like they were an afterthought. 

Now that Sam was this close, his eyes picked up the faint lines of scars that ran under the tats, puckered skin that spoke of reconstruction and surgery and trauma. During his time in service, Sam had seen injuries that left marks like those; some of the guys had gotten tattoos to hide the extent of the damage. Seb’s older ones were the work of an artist, lines and swirls integrating the scars and making them part of the beauty. 

A snore broke the quiet of the room; Sam glanced the other direction and saw Riley sprawled out on top of the covers, arm and leg hanging off the side. One of the twins was crashed on the chair by the window, using beach towels for a blanket. Vaguely, Sam remembered calling it quits at an ungodly early hour. He’d half-carried a number of passed out cousins inside, depositing them on any flat surface he could find before he crawled into bed beside Seb and waved away Riley’s concerns about sharing the bed.

Squinting, he made out the numbers on the digital bedside clock. He didn’t groan but he wanted to; he’d slept the morning away, and both Barracuda and Alexander Pierce were due to arrive far too soon. He had to get up, no matter how much he’d rather slide his hand over and stroke down Seb’s arm, trace the lines of his ink. Less than twenty-four hours, that was all he’d known this man, and he wanted to roll over and collect him, pull him close, and lie here, dozing until they could wake together. Maybe lean in, kiss those lips, stay wrapped together while minutes flitted away. 

But he couldn’t. With effort, he sat up and scooted to the end of the bed; Seb stirred and cracked his eyelids. 

“Going for a run,” Sam told him. “Be back in a bit.” 

Message received, Seb rolled over into the warm spot Sam left behind. Riley didn’t budge as Sam grabbed his stuff from his bag and went into the bathroom. Once he’d dealt with his basic needs, taking great joy in brushing the alcoholic fuzz from his mouth, he dragged his sleep shirt off and reached for his Air Force sweatshirt … then froze at what he saw in the mirror. 

On his left bicep was a star, blood red, centered inside a circle; behind were jagged lines that were fading in. 

A soul mark. 

It took a few heartbeats to register that’s what it was, then he cursed under his breath. 

“No, Goddamnit.” 

He leaned closer until he could see the letters along the bottom of the arcing ink. Half-afraid of what he’d see, he still had to know. 

“Please don’t be him.” 

B U C K Y.

He looked again, got right up next to the reflective surface. 

BUCKY.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he muttered. 

He scanned his brain and couldn’t remember anyone named Bucky. Not yesterday or the day before or, well, ever. In fact, the only B name he came up with was Brock Rumlow, and thank Jesus it wasn’t him. That would be the worst-case scenario, a homophobic jack-off like that. Better Seb than Brock. 

He should be relieved that it wasn’t Seb … except there was the tiniest bit of frustration, maybe even a sense of let down. How could he not have noticed his soulmate? His grandmother liked to tell the story of how she found her soul’s other half and remind all the kids that it was a magical thing. You just know, she would say, balls to bones. First comes the dreams, and then the touch cements it. Sam was disappointed; despite his own realistic view of relationships, there was a part of him that had bought the fairy tale, and who could blame him? His grandparents had a grand kind of love that had lasted decades. 

On the counter, his phone vibrated; a text notification popped up from Natasha. The innocuous string of words was a code that meant he needed to call her as soon as possible, and it was the distraction he needed to get back on track. He finished dressing in short order; pocketed his phone, earbuds, and a key to the cottage; grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge; picked his way through the sleeping bodies downstairs; and started walking. 

Running was his exercise of choice; he liked the headspace, the time to think as his feet hit the ground. And while undercover, it gave him a great excuse to disappear with his phone in hand and earbuds in. A warm-up walk for five minutes, then he increased the pace and ran along the shore, the resort area giving way to expensive houses. He kept going until he passed another hotel and then came to a public beach access ramp; running up to the parking lot, he cut over to the main road and called Natasha’s number. 

“Yo, dude!” Clint’s voice answered. “About time you got in contact. Nat’s going ballistic waiting for you. She’s actually painting her fingernails, and you know what that means.”

“Was a late night last night,” Sam said as he dropped into an easy jog. “Bachelor party went on for a while. Tell her there are a lot of persons of interest here and …” 

“Rumlow came by the diner yesterday, sniffing around.” Natasha came on the line. “Asking about you and Sebastian; I heard him on the phone, talking about driving up there.” 

“Yeah, he’s here. Bumped heads with James last night, threatened Riley.” Sam had gotten the story from his friend after Seb went to bed. “Everyone’s got their people on the ground, trying to mix in, some more successful than others. I think we’re the only ones with real invitations; the rest are hanging around the edges.”

“Word is the NYPD has a few people working the reception,” she told him. “They’ve got a tip that something’s going down. Keep an eye out for them.” 

“That’s just great; they better not blow this investigation. I’ve put too much time into it for some local Leo to mess it up.” 

“Ah.” Natasha paused, she always could read people’s moods. “So, how’s pretending to be dating the sexy sea bass going? Was there only one bed for the two of you last night?” 

“Sexy sea bass?” Sam really didn’t want to ask, but he had to. 

“Clint coined the term. Sebastian. Sea Bass,” Natasha patiently explained. “And he’s sexy.”

“Why are you my friends again?” Sam grumbled. “It’s going fine. Don’t trust him, but I’m pretty sure we’re the patsies of this situation, so there’s that.” 

“Hmmm.” Her next words were muffled, said to Clint, not Sam. “Clint’s very disappointed there’s been no hate sex yet. He put his money on at least a blow job before the weekend’s over.” 

“Tell Clint he can fuck right off,” Sam replied. “He needs to stop watching so much porn.” 

“Seriously, though. You sound more irritated than usual. What’s up?” Natasha wouldn’t let it go until Sam fessed up. “And don’t give me that stoic line of bullshit; you need to spill.” 

“It’s not …” Sam wasn’t sure he should tell her, but, as usual, she was right. “My soul mark. It’s coming in.” 

“All those dreams you’ve been having.” Natasha’s voice grew serious. “Is it … is there a name?” 

“That’s the weird part; it’s some dude by the name of Bucky, but I don’t know anyone called that,” Sam said. “You ever heard of someone getting a soul mark when they haven’t met the person yet?” 

“No, but I can ask around. Madame Duta  might have some insight,” she said. “Could be a nickname.” 

“Yeah, well, I met so many of Riley’s cousins last night, I don’t remember a third of ‘em. They’re all too young and too rich for my poor broke ass.” Sam sighed, slowed, and turned around to head back. “Doesn’t matter anyway; got too many guns pointed my way as it is. This is the last thing I need.” 

“Soulmate, Sam!” Clint shouted. “That’s romantic as shit.” 

“Stop it.” The sound of laughter filtered through the phone, but Natasha just talked over Clint. “Look, Fury’s going to see if he can get a line on the NYPD involvement; if it’s the task force guys, they’ll be good back up. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open and ear to the ground. Wouldn’t want anything to happen before you figure out who the lucky guy is.” 

“Sam and Bucky sittin’ in a tree …” Clint’s voice was quickly muffled. 

“We’ll be on standby; give us a heads up if you need the calvary,” Natasha said. “Be careful.” 

“Will do,” Sam replied. 

By the time he got back to the cottage, people were up and moving around the kitchen. Leftovers from last night had made an appearance on the counter and a plastic tub of Sam’s Club croissants were going fast. Sam snagged one along with a fresh cup of java and took them upstairs for a shower; he came out of the bathroom in boxers and his t-shirt to find Seb buttoning up a crisp light grey dress shirt, a darker grey and red pinstripe tie hanging around his neck. The black slacks were slim cut, hugging his ass and showing off his muscular thighs. Sam’s mouth went dry; he covered by taking the last sip of the cooling coffee. 

“Good run, doll?” Seb asked. There was still the chance of the place being bugged after yesterday’s break-in. 

“Cleared my head,” he answered. “You get anything to eat from downstairs? It’s going fast.” 

“There’s a brunch.” Seb looped the silk and started tying a knot. “Riley says it’s a big spread and free to all guests. His parents are going to be there along with Werner’s dad and some other VIPS, so you need to throw on your glad rags.” 

Sam snorted at the turn of phrase; sometimes Seb seemed like an old-fashioned gentleman. “You said the magic words, babe. Free food.”

He dressed quickly; his suit was the one he’d bought for his sister’s wedding a few years ago. A classic fit, it was blue with a subtle plaid; he’d brought a shirt with a purple stripe and a matching tie because he liked the color. He left the knot a little loose -- he was a rebel after all -- and sat down to put on his dress shoes. The jacket was cut to hide the gun he tucked in the holder in his back waistband; no way was he going into this without a weapon of some sort. He saw Seb shrug on his shoulder holster; too bad Sam couldn’t count on him to have his back. It would have been nice to know someone was on his side.

The brunch was held in a different restaurant, this one bigger with a long buffet along the wall and round tables with white cloths covering them. The room was close to filled when Riley led them through the sliding glass doors on the deck; people of every age were present from little kids in high chairs to elderly folk in wheelchairs. The twins grabbed an empty table, leaving their jackets on the back of the chairs, and then hit the line of silver serving dishes, piling their plates with smoked salmon, sausages, eggs, bagels, and tiny little quiches. Sam and Seb hung with Riley, being more diplomatic and putting bites of this and that rather than scooping it up with shovels like Andy and Robbie were doing. Riley kept getting waylaid by various family members who wanted a word about this and that. Sam managed to snag the chair with its back to the wall, leaving Seb to glower at him and slide the next one closer so he too had a clear view of the room. 

“That’s the governor and his aides,” Seb said sotto voce, looking at a table in the corner where men in expensive suits were already smoking cigars this early in the day. 

Sam slathered some cream cheese on his everything bagel. “And that’s the Swarzenegger kids one over. Arnold couldn’t make it; some meeting in LA,” Riley said. “There’s the NYPD Police Commissioner, the Mayor, a Senator, a Congresswoman, and two state representatives.” 

“Right next to Daniel Whitehall and Mariah Dillard. Strange bedfellows, eh?” Seb pointed out the head of the Folk Nation and the Queen of Harlem who were five feet apart and glaring at each other. “Have you seen …” 

Pierce picked that moment to make his entrance. Sam had thought he’d wait until later to arrive, but Pierce strolled through the entryway looking like he belonged in the room. The Governor called his name; Pierce waved that way then went to greet the Senator with a smile and hearty handshake. He made a circuit of the room, stopping to say hello to all the big movers and shakers, even giving a curt nod to Baron von Strucker’s table. 

“You know him.” Riley sat down on Sam’s other side and eyed Pierce as he spoke to a middle-aged woman in a lovely pale pink dress. “The man talking to my mother. He’s Steffie’s godfather.” 

Sam’s jaw practically fell open; he grabbed his glass of orange juice and took a long swallow to hide his surprise.

“Really?” Seb asked, sounding just as blindsided as Sam was. 

“He’s an old family friend of my dad’s; they went to high school together,” Riley explained. 

Pierce circled the table, patting the shoulder of each of the younger men before he came to them. “Mike, still at that same part-time job?” 

“Uncle Alex.” Riley rose and gave Pierce a hug. “Yeah, I’m still working at the rescue. Feels good to help others, give something back.” 

Pierce gave him a pat on the back. “And these gentlemen are …” 

“Alexander Pierce, this is Thomas Mackie and his boyfriend, James. Mackie and I met at the VA; he’s another pararescue like me.” 

“Air Force, eh?” Pierce held out his hand, and Sam shook it. The whole thing was surreal, finding out that the leader of the Pagans biker gang was Riley’s unofficial uncle. “I was in the Army for a few years, but I’ll admit air support was invaluable.”

“James was Army … what unit did you say?” Riley asked. Sam was pretty sure that Seb had been just as vague about his own service as Sam had. 

“107th.” Seb didn’t hesitate, smoothly stepping closer to Sam and smiling at Pierce. “Riley’s not bad for a flight jockey.” 

“Hey!” Sam pretended to protest. “What about me?” 

“I may have a thing for adrenaline junkies,” Seb teased, “but I like my feet on the ground, thank you.” 

Pierce chuckled. “It’s good to see you making friends who understand; it’s an important step to getting back out there. Once the ink is dry on your sister’s marriage certificate, your mother will move on to your future plans.” 

“Don’t remind me; she hasn’t stopped since I got back.” Riley turned to Sam. “I told you about the daughter of the friend of a friend she wanted to set me up with, didn’t I?”

“The uber-conservative one who turned out to be a closeted lesbian?” Sam had heard that story. “You introduced her to the woman who runs the front desk at your work?” 

“They’re engaged now.” Riley shook his head. “Mom’s definition of the perfect girl or perfect job is vastly different than mine.” 

A tinkling sound of glass caught everyone’s attention; Riley’s mother was standing, tapping the edge of her mimosa with a knife. Pierce took a seat by Riley. 

“Thank you for your attention,” she said. “Be aware that the ceremony space will not be accessible until 30 minutes before the wedding so the videographer and photograph artist can do their work. The bar at the Beach Club will be open, however, so feel free to have some champagne while you wait. Also, Stephanie and Werner ask that you keep your shoes on until after the ceremony ends and the bridal party recesses so there are no bare feet caught on camera.” 

She started to sit down, but the woman next to her caught her elbow and whispered in her ear. 

“Oh, yes. There will be no ordering of food from off-premises during the reception. The chef has prepared an extensive tasting menu, and it is exquisite, so no disrespect will be shown.” She glared at Jakob, Jarrod, Andrew, and Robert. “Am I clear?” All four nodded. “Good. Enjoy.” 

“It was just some pizza,” Jarrod muttered, slumping down in his seat. “Jeez.” 

Sam hid his smile; he didn’t want to come down on either side, but the kid had a point. It was a good pizza. 

“So Thomas, what do you do for a living?” Pierce said as people got back to eating. Man already knew, but he was smooth playing the part.

“Recruiting.” It was Sam’s pat answer that was boring enough to turn most people off of the conversation. “Finding the right people for the right jobs.” 

“Ah, yes, an important skill in today’s world.” Pierce stole a piece of bacon from Riley’s plate. “I’m trying to diversify my workforce, bring in a range of different talents and backgrounds. So important to represent a broad spectrum, don’t you agree?” 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, not sure where this was going. “Helps to have voices of color in the room.” 

“And what about you, James?” Pierce shifted his attention to Seb. “You don’t look like a man who works in an office nine-to-five if you don’t mind me saying.” 

“Nah, I’m a mechanic,” Seb answered. “Like to build things.” 

Riley’s eyes flitted between the three of them. “You should see Mackie’s car, Uncle Alex; James’ friend worked on it.” 

“The GTO is yours?” Pierce smiled. “I saw it parked down by the cottages. That is a thing of beauty, but I’m a motorcycle man, myself.” 

“James restores old motorcycles; he’s working on a new bike.” Sam looked sideways at Seb. “I remember it’s a ‘75, but not the model.” 

“A Kawasaki Z1 900.” A tall imposing man came to a stop by their table, standing beside Seb; his head was bald, his frame thin, and a monocle was over one eye. “Werner was telling me about it; my first bike was a ‘72. Such a good machine.” 

“Changed the industry,” Seb said, turning in his seat to see the man without craning his neck. “They’re good engines if you use original parts and keep up with maintenance. Lots of power.” 

“Wolfgang Von Strucker.” He offered his hand, and Seb took it without hesitation. “Father of the groom.” 

“I’m James, and this is Mackie. Friends of Riley.” 

Under the table, Sam pressed a hand on Seb’s knee to stop him from jiggling it; the water in the glasses was starting to shake with the repetitive motion. 

“Yes, Werner said you were friends from the military. Michael is a good man, and we’re glad you could join us.” Strucker oh-so-casually glanced around the table. “I don’t suppose you would reconsider and let me at least look at the bike? I’m sure I can make you a generous offer. I have a soft spot for those models.” 

“I appreciate the interest, but I intend to keep her.” Seb slipped his hand on top of Sam’s and squeezed his fingers; the move didn’t go unnoticed by Strucker. “Thank you anyway.” 

“I thought you were a Harley man, Wolfgang,” Pierce all but drawled. “American made and all that.” 

“I’m a man of many tastes, Alexander; German bikes are excellent as well. And those Ducatis … now that’s power mixed with an Italian aesthetic. Takes a developed palate to appreciate them.” Strucker’s voice grew colder. “But there is something to be said for the purity of design; too many imitations or cheap junk out there. You get what you pay for.”

Sam felt like he’d stepped in the middle of a gunfight, two adversaries facing each other down. Odds were, if it came to that, the innocent folks around them were going to get hurt. There was no love lost between the Pagans and the Hells Angels; Seb had been underplaying the violence when he said he’d had a run-in with one of Werner’s buddies. Sam had seen the report of gunshots, smashed windows, and emergency room visits. Two Hells Angels had wound up in jail when the police broke it up. 

“Sometimes.” Pierce picked up his cup of coffee. “But it has to be worth the price.” 

“I certainly hope …” Strucker broke off as Riley’s mother appeared. 

“Alex. Wolfgang.” Her voice was sharp as a tack and just as pointed. She turned it on Strucker. “And here I thought you’d be with Werner, helping him get ready. A boy needs his father on a day like today, don’t you agree?” 

“I’m just on my way now.” Strucker gave her a frosted smile. “His tie will never be straight if I don’t do it.” 

“Oh, good, you can walk me to Stephanie’s bungalow as you go. My stylist will be done with the bridesmaids by now, and I want to oversee her work on Steffie’s hair. She always curls it too tightly. Michael, darling, since you weren’t asked to be in the wedding party …” She curled her arm through Strucker’s and watched both son and father of the groom flinch at her jab. 

“Stephanie and Werner had plenty of friends to fill the groomsman slots,” Riley repeated what he’d obviously explained before, “and I’m more than happy to sit with my friends as my baby sister gets married.” 

“Be that as it may,” his mother kept going, “Steffie has decided the ushers should wear the grey afternoon suit after all.” The four young cousins groaned then shut up quickly at a glare from their Aunt. “Please make sure this lot arrives at their fitting in …” she checked her watch “... ten minutes.” 

“Aw, second breakfast.” Robbie looked mournfully at his half-full plate.

“You can use a to-go box,” the waiter who was cleaning the table said. He had been the bartender last night, if Sam wasn’t mistaken. “We’re putting them out on the silverware table.”

“Yes!” Jakob agreed. “Let’s load up, boys.” 

Chairs squeaked as they pushed back from the table, the four of them taking their plates and heading towards the buffet. 

“I’ll make sure they get there,” Riley promised his mom. 

“Thank you, dear.” She patted Strucker on his arm. “Now, let’s go see about our children, shall we?” 

“Sorry.” Riley stood up. “I feel like I’m ditching you guys.” 

“Hey, no problem, man,” Sam told his friend. 

“I’ll walk them to the venue,” Pierce interjected. “We’ll have a couple of drinks while we wait and talk about cars and motorcycles until you get there.” 

Sam had to admire the smooth way Pierce had maneuvered the situation to get what he wanted, time to talk to them alone. 

“Are you sure?” Riley’s concern was clear in his eyes. 

“We’ll be fine,” Sam assured him. “Go, do the family thing.” 

Still, Riley paused. 

“I don’t bite, Mikey,” Pierce said. “They’re safe with me.” 

With a curt nod, Riley left the table. 

“Safe, of course, being a relative term,” Pierce finished after he was out of ear shot. “Let’s take a cup to go, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on to your handlebars ... the next chapter is a real rollercoaster of a ride!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally time for the wedding ... and everything comes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As noted before, Rumlow uses some racist, sexist, and ableist language.

_ Music playing. _

_ White, white, and more white. _

_ Petals floating through the air. _

_ A hand squeezing his. _

_ Glittering crystals in the sun.  _

_ “Knew you’d figure it out.” _

_ Gun in his palm, finger on the trigger. _

_ “Watch out!”  _

_ Spinning, reaching, falling.  _

_ Red between his fingers. _

_ A woman screaming, sounds of running, voices shouting.  _

__

_ “Stay with me. Please stay with me …”  _

  
  
  


“.. be straight with me,” Mackie was saying. “It’s a dysfunctional family reunion around here, and I’m feeling like we’re the red-headed step-children nobody wants.” 

A weight settled in Bucky’s chest, the surety of impending danger growing stronger. The prickling sensation was back, spreading over his shoulders and down his arms. Something was about to happen, he was sure of it. 

Pierce raised an eyebrow as he sipped his champagne. “I didn’t expect this many interested parties,” he admitted. “But it goes to show just how far MS-13 has made inroads.” 

“You sure that’s why they’re here?” Mackie’s fingers wrapped around the stem of the crystal flute, golden liquid inside filled with bubbles. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but this has real Red Wedding vibes. Any one of them could be planning to settle scores.” 

“Dude, don’t jinx it.” Just the reference to that bloody episode added to Bucky’s uneasiness; it was too close for comfort to the dreams he’d been having. “Let’s focus on Rumlow and what he’s up to.”

They’d walked down to the beach where other guests were gathering; waiters were passing out glasses and walking around with trays of food, tiny finger-sized morsels of raw fish and exotic cheeses and puffs of pastry. Wooden planking covered the sand, creating a walkway and an area for tables and chairs. Thankfully, the weather was balmy with only a light breeze blowing off the water. 

Standing by one of the columns that held up the awnings, Mackie had immediately started questioning Pierce, trying to pin the man down on what exactly he wanted them to do. So far, Pierce’s stoic demeanor hadn’t slipped despite the appearance of five other gang leaders mingling with the rest of the wedding guests. 

“Ah, Brock. He’s been unhappy for quite some time with my policies.” Pierce made it sound like a simple difference of opinion when it was anything but. “I imagine he wasn’t pleased that I chose you for this job; he may, at last, have decided to show his true colors.” 

One of Strucker’s second-in-command picked that moment to laugh out loud, drawing attention his way. 

“You think he’s switching sides.” Bucky thought that over; Brock hated the Hells Angels but maybe his racism and homophobia trumped old rivalries. “Okay, but why then come up here? To take a shot at you? Is this all a plot to take you out of …” 

“That was fast,” Pierce spoke over the end of Bucky’s thought as Riley appeared. “Did you put the fear of God into them to get them dressed that quickly?” 

“Didn’t have to. Uncle Mario was there, and they knuckled under with just one look.” Riley snagged a glass from a passing tray. “I made my get-away.” 

Pierce chuckled and gave Riley a pat on the shoulder. “Always said you were a smart one. Joining the Air Force, going into …” Someone called Pierce’s name; the Mayor was waving him over. “Looks like I have to go smooze with the politicians. We’ll catch up after the ceremony.” 

He left, and Bucky watched him weave his way past people who wanted to kill him and who wanted to shake his hand. Pierce was playing some double-blind game; this was more than greasing palms or acting wealthy. He fit in with the elites in a way only someone raised and bred to the life of privilege did. Would he really risk bringing violence to people who thought of him as family?

“Okay, boys.” Riley turned and cornered them up. “What’s going on? That was Uncle Alex’s all-business face. You know him and he knows you.” 

As far as Bucky was concerned, it was Mackie’s call; he was Riley’s friend, after all. So he shrugged his shoulders when Mackie looked to him for help. 

“It’s a long story. Best thing is for you to stay out of it.” Mackie drained the rest of his glass.

“Why? Because I might get hurt?” Riley demanded. “You know I can handle myself in a fight. That’s where this is going, isn’t it? All those extra people and that guy last night. There’s a bunch of faces I don’t know standing around right now, and I can recognize bodyguards when I see ‘em.” 

“Keep your voice down,” Bucky warned, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed the conversation.

“Look,” Riley leaned closer. “Wolfgang’s a bad egg. Dad ran a background check on him, and he doesn’t hide his politics. Stephanie’s marrying Werner, not his dad, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s up. He’s got to have enemies, and this would be a good time and place to catch him out. I just want to make sure my sister’s not in the line of fire.” 

“I can’t …” Mackie sighed, and Bucky moved without thinking, putting a hand on his shoulder for support. “Can you trust me when I say I’ll handle this? That I promise I’ll do everything possible to make sure nothing happens to your family?”

“We’ll do everything we can.” Bucky gave Mackie a look; they were in this together, like it or not. “And if we need your help, we’ll let you know.” 

“Yeah.” Riley sighed. “I’m glad the two of you are here, however that happened. I’ve got a bad feeling about all of it.” 

“Sushi, gentlemen?” Steve held out a tray of sashimi. “It’s fresh, just made by the chef.” 

Bucky met his friends’ eyes; he and Mackie weren’t completely alone. They had Steve as back up. 

More people filtered in, and the space became too crowded for any private conversations. Bucky stayed next to Mackie, automatically taking the left side to Mackie’s right. They didn’t talk, both surveying the gathering crowd; Bucky looked for patterns, tracked who was with who, and eavesdropped on passing conversations. Without talking about it, they split the potential aggressors, keeping eyes on the various groups. Bucky paid particular attention to the Hells Angels; in return, they kept him in their sights, just as the Folk Nation folks trained their attention on Mackie. 

Riley was in demand, guests dropping by to say hello or ask for introductions, a constant flow of interruptions that made talking about anything impossible. As time passed, the tension ratcheted up; twice, Mackie tapped Bucky’s arm, unclenching his own jaw to get Bucky to stop grinding his teeth. 

Finally, the ushers emerged from the large tent where the ceremony would take place, and people began draining their drinks and shifting that way. As Bucky put his empty glass on a table, he caught motion in the corner of his eye and tracked the familiar figure of Rumlow heading towards the main hotel. 

“Be right back,” Bucky told Mackie. “Gotta hit the head.” 

He slipped away before Mackie could say anything, made sure Steve saw him leave, and followed Rumlow through a line of cottages and into the same restaurant as last night, his destination the men’s room in the hallway. Pushing through the swinging door, Bucky glanced around the end of the short wall and into the main space; Rumlow looked over his shoulder from where he stood at a urinal and grinned at Bucky in the mirror. 

“Are you watching or is there a glory hole in the back stall?” Rumlow asked. “Or you’re too fucked out from your big black boyfriend to be on the prowl?” 

“Glory hole? Seriously?” Bucky asked. “Repeat after me: porn isn’t real life.” 

“Obviously never been to some of the lower level bathrooms at Grand Central,” Brock said. 

“Going to tell me what’s going on?” Bucky had had enough of Rumlow’s brand of bully. “You were so obvious, like Lassie leading me to Timmy down the well.” 

“See, that’s what I keep telling ‘em. You’re an asshole, probably flaming as hell, but you ain’t dumb.” Rumlow barked a sharp laugh and came to the sink next to Bucky. “Saw you talking to Pierce; he still selling that lie about working together? A line of horse shit is what that is. You and I both know there’s no way those people are going to stop killing each other, much less sit down at the same table.” 

“Got a common enemy; they might … at least for a while,” Bucky said. “But that’s neither here nor there; gotta survive today, that’s what I’m worried about.” 

“Nah, man, it’s all about the future. Jockeying for position, picking your side.” Rumlow looked him square in the eyes. “You’re not a bad guy to have around in a fight; ain’t too late to change your mind about where you stand.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asked. “What are my options? From what I see, I can stick with Pierce and maybe get rewarded when this is done, or I don’t and we both know what he’ll do.” 

“Man, you gotta think outside the box.” Rumlow grabbed a handful of paper towels and wadded them up as he dried his hands. “There are bigger fish in the sea than Pierce.” 

“Like who? Strucker?” 

Rumlow’s grin grew wider. “See ya around, Seb.” 

He left and Bucky wanted to bang his head in frustration. Bigger fish than Pierce? Outside the box? What the hell was Rumlow up to? 

When he got back, the ushers were seating people and a line had formed; he slipped into place behind Riley and beside Mackie. 

“You have a nice chat?” Mackie murmured into Bucky’s ear, his warm breath tickling the sensitive spot. “Your friend’s at our eight o’clock. Came out right before you did. Should I be jealous?” 

Easiest way to look was to turn his face towards Mackie’s; their lips came dangerously close as Bucky tilted his head for a clear view. “Gave me the Dark Side sales pitch. Vague and threatening, just how he likes it.” 

“Any new clues?” Mackie asked. At this angle, Bucky could see the crenellations in his irises and the curl of his dark lashes. 

“Some mumbo-jumbo about Pierce not being the big fish and switching to the winning side.” Bucky was suddenly struck by the smell of salt and sea and cologne Mackie wore, and his cock stirred at the unique scent. 

“Bride or groom?” Jakob interrupted their tete-a-tete; they’d arrived at the threshold of the tent.“Gotta ask, Steffie said, or I’ll make an ass out of her and me, mostly me, if I don’t do what she wants.” 

“Put them behind us,” Riley said. “Sorry, guys, but I have to sit with the family.”

The tent was oriented with a raised dais in the front, an arbor overflowing with white flowers and framing the ocean through the openings. White folding chairs were covered with silk, tied back with emerald green gauze, and separated into two sides. The bride’s side was on the left; room had been left between the last chair and the edge of the creamy white tent. Bucky shivered as he surveyed the space. 

_ White on white on white. _

“Can we have the end of the row?” Mackie asked Jakob. “James has a habit of manspreading; he needs the room.” 

“Nah, it’s Mackie’s shoulders that are too wide,” Bucky teased, trying to sound normal. He was glad Mackie had thought to ask. 

“Easy escape route for an early exit, eh?” Jakob showed them to chairs that were only two rows from the back. “Wish I could do the same.” 

The resort staff worked on opening the rest until all sides were tied to poles, creating a cross-breeze and a 180-degree view. From their vantage point, Bucky could see the expanse of the beach and part of the buildings behind them, including Rumlow who was now leaning against the back of a beach chair. Brock gave a little salute. 

“No way Strucker would risk his kid.” Mackie sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “He’ll go for the meeting after, focus on the rivals.” 

As the guests were being seated, Bucky noticed others arraying themselves outside the tent. Strucker’s people on the groom’s side, towards the front, hanging out in their own folding chairs. Barracuda and the Crips around a table at the bar, sipping beers. Folk Nation at the back right, the opposite corner from the Crips. Others were further down the beach, some up on the nearest deck. All of them waiting and at the ready. 

Music filtered into Bucky’s consciousness, a quartet of strings tucked in a corner, classical pieces that added a surreal soundtrack to the proceedings. The Governor and his wife came in and sat in front of the Police Commissioner. The Mayor was next to one of the Senators. Andrew led Pierce to the bride’s side, and Riley followed him into the second row. Family members were next, taking up the rest of the spaces. 

_ Music playing. _

He lost sight of Steve; last he’d seen, he had been bussing the tables at the bar, but now the area held overflow seating. He couldn’t crain his neck to look because that would be too obvious.

Too much collateral damage. It didn’t make sense for someone to take out a person at the ceremony. Mackie’s joke about a red wedding aside, what was to gain by attacking a target in such a high-risk zone? No, if Strucker wanted to kill Pierce, it wouldn’t be in full-view of the Police Commissioner. But the meeting afterward was also fraught with peril; if Rumlow went gunning for Pierce, the others would think he was aiming for them, and, in the confusion, it would be an all-out war. 

A murmur ran through the guests as Werner and his three groomsmen entered; they took their place by the altar, a minister stepping forward. The music changed, and a little girl no more than six appeared, walking carefully down the red carpet spread over the sand; in her basket, she had white flower petals. She took handfuls and threw them like she was heaving a shot put, clumps of them falling on the guests; once she realized they could get caught up in the wind, she started tossing them up, watching them spread across the tent. The guests began to chuckle then laugh at her antics as she continued down the aisle. 

_ Petals floating.  _

“Too many ...” Bucky hadn’t realized he had mumbled out loud until Mackie replied. 

“... things to go wrong,” Mackie agreed. 

Riley’s mother came down the aisle on Jarrod’s arm, followed by an elderly woman that Robert escorted into the front row of the groom’s side. Strucker slid in next to her, smiling at his son. 

“Bigger fish,” he repeated what Rumlow said. 

Who was the biggest fish? Strucker? Pierce? One of the other gangs?

Prickles of premonition flushed across Bucky’s back; he reached out a hand without thinking about it and found Mackie’s, interlacing their fingers . 

_ Hand squeezing.  _

Another bridesmaid and then the maid of honor walked to the dais.

Bucky ticked the gangs off in his head, from the smallest to the biggest; all were present and accounted for. Who else could it be?

“Gonna happen now.” Mackie’s words were barely audible. “Right here.” 

The fanfare sounded then the wedding march began; the guests rose, turning to watch Stephanie come down the stairs and head up the aisle. Everyone paid attention to the bride who looked resplendent in a form-fitting mermaid dress sewn with beads and pearls that caught and reflected the light, sending little dancing squares all around the tent.

_ Glittering in the sun.  _

“Outside the box,” Bucky murmured 

“The winning side,” Mackie whispered. 

“MS-13,” they said at the exact same time.

“Wait, we should …” Mackie reached for him, but Bucky was already in motion, stepping out of the row before the guests sat down. The sand slipped over the top of his dress shoes, sliding inside as he headed straight for Rumlow.

“You hate Mexicans and Latinos.” Bucky got right up in the man’s face, keeping his voice low. “All that bullshit about illegal immigrants, and you sell out the first chance you get to the freakin’ Mara Salvatrucha.”

“See? Knew you’d figure it out.” 

_... figure it out. _

“So it’s all fake? The Nazi bullshit and homophobic rants?” Bucky asked. “You just playing a part all along?” 

Something hardened in Rumlow’s face; he clenched his jaw and his eyes grew steely. “What difference does it make when the people in charge don’t buy it? Pierce is changing everything, letting anybody in. Strucker’s striking deals to save his own ass. They’re opportunists, just out to make a buck, so why shouldn’t I do the same? Their money spends just the same, and there’s a whole lot more of it.” Rumlow shot a look over Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky didn’t turn. “Let’s go for a walk. This ain’t a good spot to be standing.” 

“Not until I know what you’re up to.” Bucky was thinking fast, trying to find a way out with the least amount of blood spilled. “They’re violent bastards; what’s to say they don’t shoot me no matter what I do?” 

“You think they’re coming in, guns blazing?” Rumlow shook his head. “You still don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about just taking out the competition; this is about making a statement.”

“Jesus.” It hit Bucky hard, exactly what they were planning. He’d heard that MS-13 had gotten militant, that some cells had been converted to more violent ideologies, but this? “There are innocent people, Brock, kids, elderly. What the fuck are you thinking?” 

“What do I care about those rich little shits? They made their money off the backs of the likes of us, and now we know that Pierce is one of ‘em. What’s one less privileged white boy, eh?” Rumlow’s chuckle was dark and foreboding as he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “No skin off my back. All I gotta do is push the button and walk away.” 

“This is crazy.” Maybe he could talk him out of it, or maybe he could buy enough time for Steve to get in place and take him out. “You said Pierce was using me; what do you think they’re doing to you? People have seen your face, know you’re here. Some of ‘em might survive, and they’ll hunt you down.” 

“I’m not stupid.” Rumlow ran his fingers over the little silver buttons on the old Nokia. “I’m gonna be living a new life by tomorrow while they’re picking pieces of you out of the sand.” 

“Brock,” he tried again, but Rumlow shrugged and turned to walk away. 

“Bye, Seb. Have a good last few seconds.” 

Bucky’s gun was in his hand; he pointed it at Rumlow. “Stop right there,” he ordered. 

_ Finger on the trigger. _

“Or what? You’ll kill me in front of all these witnesses? The Police Commissioner and the Mayor?” Rumlow paused, looked back over his shoulder. “Shoot me in the back and think they’ll believe it wasn’t a falling out between conspirators? You’ll be the perfect scapegoat.” 

“Give him the phone.” Mackie was standing next to Bucky, his own gun out. “This doesn’t have to end in violence.” 

“Now that’s interesting. A Crip trying to avoid bloodshed?” Rumlow cocked his head but still didn’t turn around. “I think your butt buddy may not be what he seems. Too bad. Guess I’ll have to take my chances.” 

He held out the phone, and Bucky’s heart froze as he punched a button; the screen lit up and numbers appeared. 

“Watch out!” Mackie shouted. 

Bucky jerked his attention from the phone to see Rumlow pull the trigger on the gun aimed right at him. He pivoted, tried to spin out of the way, but there wasn’t time. 

_ Spinning. _

Hands reached out, grabbed Bucky, pushed him aside. 

_ Reaching. _

The bullet slammed into Mackie, knocking him forward, and he fell into Bucky’s arms. 

_ Falling. _

“No!” Bucky eased down to the sand, cradling Mackie. 

More shots rang out; Bucky looked up to see Rumlow stumble then drop, Steve closing in. Behind him, chairs clattered to the ground and chaos erupted; feet trampled on the wooden walkway, voices were raised, and a woman screamed. Steve nodded when he had his knee in Rumlow’s back; he’d handle it. 

_ Screaming, running, shouting. _

“Bomb,” Mackie said, his voice thready with pain. “There’s a …” 

“We’re on it.” 

A flash of red hair, and the waitress from the diner was there, moving with purpose towards Steve and Rumlow. Bucky blinked, thought he saw Clint Barton, but red was soaking into the cuffs of his shirt, Mackie’s blood, and nothing else mattered. 

_ Red between his fingers. _

“Hey.” Bucky almost panicked as Mackie’s eyelids flickered. “Come on, doll. Stay awake.”

Mackie’s hand fumbled, searching for Bucky’s, so he caught it and held it tight. The soulmark on his back flared to life; Mackie gasped, blood dribbling from his lips.

“Hold on,” Bucky begged. “Stay with me, Mackie.”

_ Please. Stay. _

“Sam,” Mackie murmured. “My name. It’s Sam.” 

Heat washed up his arms from where their hands were joined, across his back and into his chest, settling in his heart. 

“Hey, Sam. I’m Bucky. Nice to finally meet you.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson didn't plan to pretend to date a biker dude, find out he was his soulmate, and take a bullet for him. But he's damn glad they both survived and now he's going to grab this chance for his happily ever after. 
> 
> Bucky Barnes didn't plan to pretend to date a gang member, find out he was his soulmate, and watch him take a bullet for him. But he's damn glad they both survived and now he's going to grab this chance for his happily ever after.
> 
> A series of little epilogues about what comes next in the lives of Bucky and Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, at the end of this fun fic. I really enjoyed working in all the tropes, building the tension and bringing these two sexy idiots together. I hope you had fun on the ride! I have another Sam/Bucky fic if they're your OTP called "I Know" and a plethora of Clint Barton centered ones if you're so inclined. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!

Sam slowly opened his eyes, and the white ceiling tiles swam into focus. Along with the quiet beeps of the heart monitor, he felt the pinch of the needle in the fold of his arm. A bitter aftertaste lingered in his mouth from the cannula blowing oxygen in his nose. Hospital. He was in the hospital.

“Hey.” Riley leaned over the edge of the bed. “You finally finished sleeping?” 

“That asshole shot me.” Sam’s voice was hoarse, his throat like sandpaper. “Man, I could use a drink. Got any of that good whiskey laying around?” 

“Sure thing. I’ll run right out and get it after I’m done yelling at you for that stupid stunt.” Riley picked up a cup with a straw and offered it to Sam; the iced water soothed the rough edges. “You could have told me you were an undercover federal agent.” 

“I couldn’t tell anyone.” Sam’s memory was pretty fuzzy; he mostly remembered the pain, a pair of blue eyes, and that voice begging him to stay. “Your sister okay?” 

“She’s pissed but alive,” Riley explained. “It was scary there for a few minutes. We heard the shot then suddenly a bunch of guns came out and I thought we were going to be in the middle of a gang war. Got mom down on the ground and by the time I looked up, Werner was on top of Steffie, covering her. Guess he really does care about her; he protected her instead of his dad. Wolfgang took a couple of bullets to the chest. He’s in surgery; from what I hear, it’s touch and go.”

“Probably aiming for him. Cut off the head of the organization,” Sam said. “Anybody else hurt?” 

“Three dead: one of Werner’s groomsmen, the one with the bruised knuckles, and two guys who weren’t wedding guests. No clue who they were. Jakob was hit -- heroic idiot was trying to get people to safety and didn’t get down -- but he’s going to be fine. The police and the FBI swooped in real fast and put an end to it; they arrested a bunch of people.” 

He had to ask. “And Brock? The guy who shot me?” 

“Locked up tight and in interrogation. NYPD and FBI are working together, or so your red-headed friend tells me. They got most of the leaders, she said, but Uncle Alex got away. Must have slipped off during the confusion.” Riley paused. “I can’t believe he’s a bad guy but still … there was a bomb at my sister’s wedding aimed at him. The damned thing was packed with high grade explosives; would have left most of the resort in nothing but a smoking crater. One of your guys defused it, Benton or Bacon or something like that. Snipped a couple wires and killed the power to the timer.” 

“Barton. Clint Barton. Bet the first thing he checked was his car when everything was done. He’s the one who loaned me the GTO.” Sam chuckled once then stopped. “Ow, okay, that hurts.”

“Bullet missed the major organs,” Riley told him. “He was aiming at James, not you.”

“James.” Sam glanced at the empty room then tried to act casual when he asked, “Did he get away?” 

“Oh, fuck you, Mack …” Riley broke off. “Sam, damn it. Going to take awhile to get used to that.” 

“If it helps, Mackenzie is my mama’s maiden name,” Sam offered. “But, yeah, it’s Sam. Sam Wilson.” 

“Well, Sam Wilson, you really think James ran off and left you? He’s been by your side the whole time, rode in the ambulance and has pretty much made a nuisance of himself,” Riley said. “Only reason he’s not here right now is because I came by to visit and bullied him into getting something to eat and taking a shower. He was still in his suit from the wedding.” 

“Oh.” A bit of tension faded away at the news. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, I lied to him about who I was, and I didn’t want it to be him, not at first, but then I did and …” 

“Well, I lied to you too.” James … Bucky … stood in the doorway, a styrofoam cup in one hand and a take-out bag in the other. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain grey henley under that sexy leather jacket from the diner, and he looked absolutely amazing. Placing the bag and coffee on the rolling tray, he stepped up to the other side of the bed. “We’re even on that front, the way I see it.” 

“And on that note, I’m out of here.” Riley patted Sam’s arm then picked up his coat. “Seems someone trying to bomb the wedding has put mom off the whole marriage thing. She’s taken back her blessing and is threatening to cut Steffie off if she goes through with it. Werner’s pretending he knew nothing about his dad’s activities, but that’s a crock of shit and we all know it. I’m avoiding the whole thing by taking a couple of extra meetings at the VA. I’ll drop by later when I’m done.” 

After he left, Sam couldn’t think of where to start; there was too much to say, and none of it was easy. “So, you’re Bucky,” tumbled out of his mouth. 

“James Buchanan Barnes, so technically, James works.” Bucky fiddled with the pockets on his jeans then tucked his hands inside. “But my friends call me Bucky.” 

“Dude,” Sam said. “Your mama had a thing for minor Presidents or something?”

“Samuel Thomas Wilson?” One corner of Bucky’s lips quirked up. “Adams and Jefferson and Woodrow all rolled into one. Don’t think you can talk.” 

Sam ignored the jab, but it warmed his heart. “The waiter’s one of those friends? The one with the gun who took down that asshat?” 

“Steve Rogers. Known him since we were kids in Brooklyn, grew up together.” Bucky kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You and Clint?” 

“Been working together for a few years now, me and him and Nat. Part of the multi-agency terrorism task force.” Might as well spill it all. “I’m ATF.” 

“NYPD,” Bucky admitted. “Kinda glad that cover’s blown; can’t wait to sleep in my own bed and not have to deal with Rumlow’s bullshit.”

Sam wanted to flat out ask, but he didn’t quite know how. “Do you … I mean … Did you … while we were …” 

“Soulmark?” Bucky nodded. “Yeah. I saw yours on your shoulder when they cut off your shirt … it and the jacket are goners, sorry. It’s my old unit symbol, right where the patch would have been on my uniform.” He paused then continued. “Mine’s on my back. Wings of all things. Didn’t understand why until I remembered you said you were pararescue. Ran into some of them over there; you guys were crazy.” 

Wings. That made Sam inordinately happy. “Gotta be a little bit insane to be up there with the planes, but, man, it’s a rush. You like flying? We could go. I know a guy, gets me time on the practice field. I can take you up.”

“And I’ll take you for a ride on my bike, my version of flying. But it might be a while. Doctor says you’ll need to stay here for a few more days, and then there’ll be PT and recovery,” Bucky told him. “Clint was by earlier, said not to worry, that he’d take care of your paperwork.” 

“Oh God, no,” Sam almost groaned. “Purple ink and little arrows over everything; I’ll be cleaning them up for months.”

“I usually pass mine off to Steve; he writes in these neat little block letters, straight lines, and complete sentences.” Bucky chuckled, and that was a sound Sam wanted to hear more. 

“It’s the thought that counts, I guess.” Sam looked up at Bucky and the sappy grin on his face. “So, James Buchanan Barnes. Soulmates, huh?” 

“Soulmates.” Bucky leaned his forearms on the side railing of the bed. “We’ve sort of already slept together; you snore, by the way.” 

“I do not.” Sam refused to believe it. 

“After a few drinks and you’re on your back? Yeah, you do, but it’s a cute snore, not one of those freight train rattling sounds, so we’re good.” Blue eyes sparkled; Bucky brushed his fingers along Sam’s forearm, and Sam shivered from the gentle touch. “And you give off heat like a furnace which works for me since I’m always cold.” 

“You really are vanilla ice, ice, baby?” Sam knew it was corny the second the words left his mouth, but he didn’t care. Just being this close to his soulmate made him feel so much better. “Maybe a little chocolatino will help with that.” 

“God you are cheesy as hell,” Bucky told him. “That didn’t show up in my dreams.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Sam started to croon. “You walked out of a dream, peaches and cream, lips like strawberry wine …”

Bucky was laughing when he kissed him. 

**FOUR MONTHS LATER ...**

“Any idea what this is about?” Steve asked as he entered the conference room. “Peggy didn’t give any hints.” 

Bucky shook his head as he pulled out one of the plastic chairs and plopped down, kicking his feet up on the table. “No clue. Maybe she’s finally going to put me back out in the field.” 

D.I.C. Peggy Carter came in the room in her professional business wear, a grey suit with a red blouse and lipstick to match. But it was the person behind Carter that grabbed Bucky’s attention; tall and glowering, in a long black leather coat, Nicholas Fury was the head of Sam’s task force and one scary motherfucker. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered just what Fury had on his superiors in D.C. that they let him run his team the way he wanted to without interference. Whatever it was, Fury had the highest case closure rate Bucky had ever seen.

This was only the third time they’d been in the same room -- the first was after the Montauk bombing and the second at a BBQ at Sam’s grandmother’s house just a few weeks ago. Bucky still felt the urge to sit up straight in the man’s presence. He didn’t, but the thought was there.

“Gentlemen, Director Fury has asked for your help on a case. Since Agent Barnes’s identity is out there …” Peggy ignored Bucky’s huff of disagreement “ … it seems the best use of your talents to acquiesce.” Steve started to argue, but she kept talking over him. “Unless, of course, you prefer to continue riding a desk and filing paperwork.” 

“I’m in,” Bucky agreed quickly. Steve nodded, albeit more slowly. “What’s on tap, Nick?” 

“We’ve got a line on a child trafficking ring run out of Miami. Rich son-of-a-bitch recruits girls in Central and South America, flies them to his private island then brings in prospective buyers on his jet,” Fury said. “Problem is getting inside his organization; we’ve sent three agents to infiltrate, but he’s made them immediately.”

“He knows your people.” Steve always saw the connections faster than anyone else. “Bought the info or has someone in the government.” 

“Exactly. We’ve already started tracking down leads on how he knows, but we still need hands-on surveillance and intelligence gathering.” 

“That’s what you need us for,” Bucky finished. “How do we get in?”

“Wilson’s at the security firm that supplies the island with guards; he can’t go any further, but he can get Barnes on the schedule. You fit the profile -- ex-military and gay.” 

“Excuse me?” Steve blinked. “He only hires gay guards?” 

“To protect the purity of the merchandise,” Fury said with a sneer and wince. “He’s a sack of shit in a fancy suit.” 

Steve cursed under his breath. 

“Rogers here will be assigned to a cooperating witness, a rich guy who turned out to have a conscience once he saw what was going on. He’ll get you onto the island as his current boy toy for one of the BDSM parties.” 

Bucky snorted and enjoyed every second of the blush that ran up Steve’s neck and stained his cheeks. “Someone’s got your number, Stevie. Black leather, collars …” 

“I know what you get up to on whatsapp,” Steve warned. “I will not hesitate to share, _ Bucky Bear _ .”

“Boys.” Peggy gave them her steely glare. “We’re talking about girls as young as eight-years-old being sold into slavery. Is now really the time for this?” 

“Eight?” Bucky put his feet down and sat up. “Let’s get this fucker.” 

“I’ll make sure all the paperwork is put through,” Fury said to Peggy. “Pack your bags, gentlemen; we’re off to Florida.” 

**... AND TWENTY DAYS AFTER THAT**

“Look, miss, there’s no one flying the plane, okay? We’re going to have to jump,” Steve shouted to the terrified accountant who was standing frozen, looking at the dead bodies sprawled on the airplane floor. In the cockpit, pilot and co-pilot were slumped over the controls, killed by Gustafen’s men. The autopilot had been enabled then both it and the landing gear sabotaged, but Steve didn’t bother to tell the poor woman that; she was already panicked and wild-eyed about the thought of jumping. 

The whole operation had been going so well; no one had given Bucky a second glance, taking him for just another guard. He had the whole run of the island within a week of getting there. Steve almost had a cow when he realized their cooperating witness was Tony Stark of Stark Industries, but he rose to the occasion, going from tough cop to male model so convincingly he’d gotten three job offers over the weekend. Even Michael Riley, newly recruited by Fury himself, had done his part without a hitch, taking info off the island with the bi-weekly supply runs. No, the explosion of violence was pure coincidence, a feud between Gustafen and two ex-business partners that had led them to this cargo plane, flying over the ocean with no way to land or control their direction, and only two parachutes but six people to get to safety. 

“It’ll be fine, I promise,” Riley said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You’ll be with me the whole way, and I’ll take care of everything.” 

“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked Sam who was strapping a silver metal backpack on. 

“Wings, babe.” Sam planted a kiss on Bucky’s cheek and kept grinning as he walked towards the open door. “See you on the ground.” 

He jumped out and Bucky ran forward with a shout; in the blue that spread below them, Sam whooped as silver wings extended, and he soared in a loop, waving at Bucky as he circled. 

“Here.” Steve handed him a parachute. “Put this on.” 

As he geared up, he saw Riley had the same backpack, but this one had a harness on the front; he gently secured the accountant so she was facing him, her face buried in his neck, arms around his waist. With two steps, he launched them out of the plane. 

“Those are so cool,” Stark said, half leaning out the door to watch. “I had a hand in the updated design, but I can do better now that I’ve seen them in action.”

“Do you know how to put this on, Mr. Stark?” Steve asked, holding out the parachute. “We’re going to have to share. Either you wear it and strap me in or I wear it and you ride down with me.” 

“First off, it’s Tony. Anybody I handcuff to a bed is automatically on a first name basis.” Stark’s smile was sexy and aimed squarely at Steve. “Second, big spoon or little spoon is basically top or bottom and, babe, I’m good with both. Third …” Stark rose up on his toes and laid a big kiss on Steve, “ … as much as I really want to grind my ass against that amazing dick as we plummet through the air, I’ve got this.” He tapped bracelets on each wrist and, in a few seconds, red and gold panels emerged , encasing him in a full robot-like suit. The last piece was a faceplate that he kept open. “Suit up, Rogers; I’m buying the first round.” Then he jumped out of the plane, fired some sort of stabilizers, and went flying after the others. 

“What the fuck?” Bucky stared after him while Steve shrugged on the ‘chute. “Did you have sex with Tony Stark? Seriously?” 

“Buck.” Steve adjusted the reserve; the movement tugged the collar of his half-torn shirt, revealing the top of a circular tattoo on his chest. 

“He’s your soulmate.” Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course he is.” 

**ALMOST SIX MONTHS AFTER THAT**

Sunlight filtered through the window over the bed, casting bright squares on the patchwork quilt. The sounds of the street were muted by the double thick panes of glass, a lulling background soundtrack of the city. Boxes were stacked along the wall and on the dresser, the mirror still unattached and leaning against the chest of drawers. Frames were padded and wrapped in brown paper, piled neatly in a corner. Only a small rolling suitcase was open, a hoodie tossed across the top. 

Sam woke from his doze, wrapped around Bucky, his head on his shoulder, warm and comfortable. Chest rising and falling, Bucky was still asleep; after last night’s bottle of champagne they’d opened to celebrate, Sam hadn’t bothered to set his alarm. Carrying furniture and boxes up four flights of stairs was enough of a work out for a few days. But it was worth it; now they had a king sized bed and could sprawl out without fear of falling off the edge of Bucky’s full-sized mattress. There was also space for the white ball of fur that was tucked into the bend in Sam’s knee, the cat Bucky had rescued from behind a dumpster a few weeks ago; it had deigned to let them feed and pet her and had decided to stay. 

A soft sigh escaped his lips; contentment, that’s what Sam was feeling. The decision to move to New York had taken a while, but now that he was here, getting to wake up like this every day, Sam knew it was the right one. They could see their friends more -- the empty pizza boxes in the kitchen proved that -- and they were ready to take this step in their relationship. Sam had been spending practically every weekend he could get away at Steve and Bucky’s old place; Steve deciding to shack up with Tony Stark rather than renew his part of the lease was the perfect opportunity to find an apartment of their own. 

They’d opted to stay in Brooklyn despite Steve’s sad face and reminders of the travel time into Manhattan. The borough felt like home with Clint and Natasha living in Bed-Stuy and the twin’s bakery not too far away. All it took was one visit to this building, a restored brownstone, and they’d been sold on the big windows and wood floors and updated kitchen and shower large enough for two. They wanted it enough to accept Tony’s discounted rent -- he owned the company that owned the building -- and that helped smooth over the distance and make both Tony and Steve happy. A block from the subway, two streets over from a ton of restaurants and coffee shops, a diner only five minutes walk away -- the top floor flat with a small patio outdoor space was a New Yorker’s dream. 

“Hey.” Bucky’s eyes were barely opened, but a smile was already on his lips. “No run this morning?” 

“Yesterday was better than an hour on the Stairmaster.” Sam slipped his hand up Bucky’s chest, fingers grazing sensitive nipples as he went. “My thighs are bitching at me, so I thought I’d give them a day off.” 

“Uh Huh.” Bucky didn’t flinch when Sam began to stroke the scars on his shoulder; he’d gotten used to the feather-light touches and gentle kisses Sam liked to give. “Couldn’t have anything to do with wearing you out last night when we christened the new bed.” 

Sam’s cock stirred at the memory: the rush of their first time in the apartment, fast strokes and quick breaths, Sam on his hands and knees, Bucky’s voice in his ear. Falling into an exhausted but sated sleep, wrapped in each other's arms, the beginning of a new phase of their lives together. 

“Maybe.” He tilted his head up and kissed Bucky, slow and sweet. “Or maybe I really just wanted to try out that shower with you.”

“I am definitely on board with that, doll,” Bucky said. 

“And after, we go get pancakes,” Sam murmured. 

Sometime later, when the warm water streamed over them, Bucky’s hands were braced against the travertine tile and Sam was buried deep inside of him, Sam bent his head and kissed the spot between Bucky’s shoulders where the tattooed wings sprouted. Bucky, in response, reached for Sam’s arm, wrapping his fingers over the red star, holding on tight as Sam thrust and Bucky groaned; they chased their pleasure until both tipped over the edge. 

As they were drying off, Sam looked at Bucky’s flushed skin, the wet hair he’d let grow out until it flopped over one eye, the tattooed scars on his arm, and he said, “Can’t believe I’m in love with a biker dude.” 

Bucky’s gaze met his in their shared mirror. “Yeah, well, I’m crazy about a guy who jumps out of perfectly good airplanes.”

Sam leaned in for a minty toothpaste kiss … and it tasted like forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the Steve/Tony match there at the end and a quick cameo of Alpine, Bucky's white cat in fan headcanon. 
> 
> Yep, the scene in the airplane is an easter egg to the upcoming Falcon and Winter Soldier Disney+ show.
> 
> I couldn't resist bringing Riley into the family; I've kind of fallen in love with him and his cousins as I wrote this. ;)


End file.
